Gloomy Little Place
by Mr. Melancholic
Summary: A new patient is checked into Arkham Asylum, and meets its colorful inhabitants with as much disinterest as he can muster.
1. Chapter 1

If you are here for an adventure, you had better look somewhere else. Like Roquentin, I do not have adventures. Things happen to me … that is all. One of those things is happening now: I am being led up a muddy road to a large, dark, imposing building with far too many turrets. It is raining.

On top of the wrought-iron gate we just passed through, the name of the building is prominently displayed: Arkham Asylum.

'Asylum' is derived from a Greek word that means 'refuge'. But it left this meaning by the wayside a long time ago. It least it has in this city. I cannot speak for those who live in that world of blue sky and green grass that exists somewhere beyond the dark waters of Gotham Harbor.

But Arkham Asylum is not a refuge for the mentally ill. The patients know it. The doctors know it. I know it.

And you know it, too.

Whoever the hell you are. Seriously, what are you doing here, listening to me prattle on about _things_? Is this really how you want to spend your time?

Whatever. I guess if you're here, then we're in this together, _mate_.

So anyway, the door to the asylum was opened, with a lot of creaking and whatnot. I was brought inside, to a foyer that was pretty spacious, but also pretty dimly lit. There was a large, red carpet spreading across the floor, and the walls were lined with paintings of indifferent-looking individuals, gazing off into the darkness with hollowed eyes.

From there, I was led up a flight of stairs and into the office of a Doctor … Something-or-other. She asked me a few questions, like "how can we help you?" and "what do you hope to get out of this experience?" I didn't really know what to say to any of that, and I told her so. She seemed to think that was meaningful, and made a few notes. Then she said some things that I've quite forgotten, and I was shown to my cell.

There was nothing of note there, but I stayed in it for a few days anyway. Being a 'Green Patient', or something like that, I was allowed to come and go as I pleased. However, the only reasons to leave, I figured, were for meal times or recreation. But for those first days, I felt neither hungry nor in need of exercise. So I counted the cracks in the walls, and time passed.

But one day, I did go to the recreation room. It was rather well-furnished, with lots of tables and chairs, as well as a television. There was even a fireplace built into one wall, although there was no fire in it. People were scattered here and there, talking, playing games, watching television, or just staring into space. I hesitated for a moment in the doorway, not entirely sure where to make my way to. Then I just started threading my way through the tables, figuring I'd know my destination when I saw it.

I passed by a tall, somewhat thin man sitting at a table all by his lonesome. There was a chessboard set up in front of him, but he wasn't paying attention to it. His piercing, green eyes flicked about the room, fixing on something or someone for a few moments, and then moving on. Eventually they landed on myself.

"Care for a game?" he said, his voice dripping with confidence and superiority, while smirking in a self-satisfied sort of way.

"Why?" I asked.

The pretentious man tilted his head slightly to the left and gave me an _aren't you clever?_ kind of look.

"Because," he said, still smiling smugly, "I'm bored. And you're a newcomer. I like playing people who still think they've got a shot at outthinking me."

I pulled out the chair and sat down.

"Oh, a no-nonsense kind of guy," the man said, closing his eyes briefly, like he was savoring a sip of fine wine, "excellent."

He reached a hand out, gripped one of his white pawns with three fingers, and moved it forward two spaces.

I moved my farthest right hand pawn up one space.

"What's your name, chatterbox?" the man asked, casually advancing another pawn.

I told him.

"That's a stupid name," he said, "I think I'll keep calling you Chatterbox. Then I won't gag every time I want to talk to you."

I moved a knight out.

"I," he said, "am Edward. But … you might know me by another name."

I looked up and met his glinting green eyes and his smug face. Then I shook my head.

"Don't read the papers much, do you?" Edward asked.

"Don't need to," I said.

Edward chuckled. "That's a bit arrogant of you. You know there's a lot of useful information in those things."

Now, I'd hate for you to think I was stupid, _mate_. I knew exactly who this schmuck was. But I certainly hadn't heard about him reading the papers because, seriously, why would you read a newspaper anymore? Anyway, the point is, I knew about his whole shtick. And I also knew that the only way to handle narcissists of that caliber was to match their level of arrogance. And that was what lead me to say:

"Shut up and play. I've got things to do."

"Oh, you do, do you?" Edward said languidly, "important things?"

"Oh, it's just few preparations for when I'm out of here," I said.

" _A few preparations for when you're out of here?_ " he repeated, a little incredulously. "The nerve of some of you people. This your first time through the asylum? And, what, you think you're just going to go rule the underworld after your brief stint?"

"That," I said, lowering my voice conspiratorially, "is exactly what I'm planning. But don't tell."

"Oh, that is rich," Edward said, deliberately raising his voice. "You lowlifes are all the same. You think you've got it all figured out, that all us old fools don't have a clue what we're doing. Think you'll just waltz into this city and do whatever you please. Oh, but you just wait, once the Big Bad Bat so much as glances your way, you'll release enough fluids to fill a water tower."

He finished his rant and I smiled inwardly to myself, because I had succeeded in getting a rise out of him. Oh, and in case you were wondering, _mate_ : no, I have never seen the Batman before. But that's hardly relevant, is it? Anyway, I said nothing in response, and took one of his pieces instead.

"That's what I thought," Edward said. "And listen, friend, I don't hold your overconfidence against you. Everyone here's got it pretty bad. They all think they're something special, but put together they wouldn't have enough brains to solve a crossword puzzle. And _that_ ," Edward continued, smiling wickedly and tapping his fingers on the table, "is why I'm going to outlast them all. When this city's in ruins, and the Bat's taken them all out, I'm going to be the one coming up behind him, ready to stab him in the back."

I bowed my head, moved another piece, and still said nothing. He was really on a roll.

"Metaphorically speaking, of course," Edward clarified, waving his hand disdainfully. "I don't care much for violence, it's so … pedestrian."

I thought about that for a bit.

"How exactly does that, work, then?" I asked. "it seems to me that any kind of lasting damage would have to be … physical, would it not? Like death?"

"Oh, au contraire, Chatterbox. It's just the other way around. But I don't think you'd understand things of that nature."

"Well," said I, "how about you let me be the judge of that."

"No," he said, "I don't think you've earned the right to know my ponderings. Maybe if you beat me here, I'd tell you something. But unfortunately for you –"

Edward moved a rook forward, placing it on a black square with a sharp click and checkmating my king.

"– you're all out of time. So get lost."

I stared at the board and its pieces until Edward gave a polite cough and made shooing gesture. I looked up and met his gaze.

"What if I played you tomorrow?"

"What's that?" he said.

"If I play you tomorrow. Would the stakes be the same?"

Edward tilted his head back and looked thoughtfully up.

"Well, Chatterbox, you weren't even close to winning this one. What makes you think you've ever got a chance in hell of beating me?"

I shrugged.

"I bet you I can, with enough time."

"Mmh," Edward said, "that's an interesting sentiment … I tell you what. Normally I can't stand repeat performances. Once I've beaten an opponent, all the excitement of the game goes out of it. But, if you can guarantee that each day you'll play better than you played the day before … then I will accept your proposal. Same stakes."

"See you tomorrow," I said, abruptly standing and walking towards the door. And I almost made it to said door before I heard Edward's pretentious voice behind me.

"Oh, Chatterbox, since you've been such a good sport about all this, I'd like to give you a piece of advice."

Well, I couldn't really turn down something like free advice, so I turned around.

Edward was sitting back in his chair with his hands behind his head and then, with great ceremony, he proceeded to recite:

"All contain me, all things I contain.

I am the cause of everything insane.

I have no walls, no lock or key,

Yet I imprison that which imprisons me.

What am I?"

I silently walked out the door.


	2. Chapter 2

"Attention. All Yellow-Grade Patients are required to be present in their assigned rooms in – twenty – minutes. Roll will be taken. Thank you."

The cool, mechanical voice of the public address system cut neatly through the silence of the library. It was a surprisingly spacious room, a two-storied affair. A balcony ran around the perimeter of the second floor.

I was on the ground floor, perusing through the tall shelves, pulling off as many books on chess theory as I could find. I was using a flashlight to read the titles of books because, strangely enough, there were no windows in the library. Apparently, the reasoning was that excessive sunlight could be damaging to the pages of the books. So, apparently, their solution was to cut off all sunlight entirely.

The only lights in the room were mounted on the walls, above small tables, and the little light that they provided hardly penetrated into the shadows of the tall shelves. As such, the library was perpetually shrouded in a dim twilight.

Not that it mattered all that much. So far, I had not seen any other patients utilizing this rather abundant resource. I suppose the criminally insane do not spend their free time brushing up on their literature.

I lifted one more volume ( _Mastering Chess)_ off the shelf and then began making my way back to the table where I had another nine books stacked. As I neared the end of an aisle, however, my eye fell on a large, black, leather-bound book sitting prominently on the left-hand shelf. It was a copy of the novel _Don Quixote_. But this was not a section for novels, and I saw that all the books surrounding it were about fishing.

Now, _mate_ , I suppose you might not find this situation very significant. But I thought it was extremely odd. And so, after glancing up and down the aisle, I dropped _Mastering Chess_ on the floor and pulled the large book off the shelf. Illuminating it with my flashlight, I opened the novel.

And then I raised my eyebrows in surprise, because someone had cut right through the pages of the book, and hollowed out a rectangular space inside of it. Lying inside that space was a silver pocket watch.

"Well, how about that," I said to myself.

I put the flashlight on the shelf in front me, and then picked up the watch. There did not seem to be anything of note on the outside. I flipped it open, and saw that it was not really a watch at all. Well, it was, except it only had one, unmoving hand attached to it. And, instead of numbers arranged in a circle around it, there were letters.

" _Boo_ ," said a voice in my ear.

Startled, I slammed the book shut and dropped the hand holding the pocket watch down behind me, for all the world as if I had been caught doing something wrong. Which I hadn't … I don't think.

I turned in the direction in which the voice had come, and I jumped. Again.

Standing about three foot from me was a man with a sackcloth bag over his head, with little eyeholes cut into them. He was leaning casually against the shelf with his arms crossed, and there was a satchel slung over his shoulder.

"What's that?" he asked.

"Book," I replied.

I reached up and returned the book to its place. The bag-head man flicked his eyes briefly to it and back again. I picked up my flashlight and trained it directly on his face, but he did not blinked, not even once. Then, abruptly, he pushed himself off the shelf and stood up straight.

"Dr. Crane," he said, extending a gangly arm. I looked at him, and at his offered hand. Carefully, I slid the watch into my pocket, then bent down and retrieved _Mastering Chess_. I stood up without looking at him, turned around, and walked back to my table. I wasn't exactly in the mood to deal with bag-headed men, doctors or otherwise. I kind of doubted he was actually a doctor, although he probably needed one, badly. Like, _this_ _very_ _instant_ kind of bad.

I dropped _Mastering Chess_ next to my stack of other books and sat down. In a flash, Crane had pulled out the other chair on the opposite side of the table and settled into it. I shot him a withering glance, but he wasn't looking at me. He had placed his satchel on the ground beside his chair, and when was pulling a manila folder out of it. When Crane opened said folder, I was more than little surprised to see my name written on the front.

"I see," he began after a moment, "that the somewhat competent staff at Sunshine Medical Center saw fit to diagnose you … among other things … with the inability to feel pleasure. Anhedonia."

Crane laid the file flat on the table.

"Is that … my private psychological evaluation?" I asked.

Crane did not answer my question, but I could tell by the crinkling of his eyes that he was smiling underneath his mask.

"I imagine that you're condition must be a difficult thing for you. But, then again, how would you know what you're missing?"

He tilted his masked head to the side, inquisitively.

I must confess to you, _mate_ , that at this point I was beyond irritated with "Dr. Crane". Now that he had lowered the folder, I could see that the pages within it looked like photocopies, rather than originals. So that was interesting.

"Anyway," Crane continued, leaning back in his chair, "would you like to talk about that?"

I thought about that.

"No."

Crane reached into his satchel again and withdrew a clipboard and pen. He _click-clicked_ the pen, and made a note.

"Hostility," he muttered, just loud enough for me to hear.

"How did you get that?" I asked, ignoring his comment and indicating the folder. Crane tapped his pen against the clipboard, and I could tell he was smiling again.

"That's part of my business," he said, "just as it is part of yours to answer my questions."

I kept staring at the folder. Crane sighed, put his clipboard aside, picked up the file and placed it back in his satchel. I saw that he had quite a lot of manila folders in there, and noted the approximate place where he had put mine.

"Let's talk about something else," Crane said, picking up his clipboard again, "and I'm going to be honest with you."

I started inching my foot forward across the floor.

"I have been very interested, lately, in the mind of the average Gotham citizen, and how its been holding up these days," Crane said. "And you seem … average enough."

He gave me a somewhat disappointed look, and I tried to appear mildly offended, if only to distract him from the fact that I was doing my best to bring my foot as close to his satchel as possible, without accidently kicking Crane himself.

"I'm writing a book, you see," Crane continued, " _The Escalation of Fear and Its Societal Consequences: A Case Study of Vigilantism in Gotham City_."

"Sounds a bit wordy," I said.

"The point is," Crane continued, as if he had not heard me, "what are your thoughts on the notion that perhaps your … condition … has been exacerbated by your environment?"

"Well," I said, as I tried to locate the strap of his satchel with my shoe, "we've certainly been living in … unusual … times, I would say."

"Mm-mh," Crane said, making a note on his clipboard, "and how does that make you feel?"

"Uh …" I said, "afraid … I guess."

"Really?" Crane asked, and I detected an odd edge creeping into his voice. It was either amusement or irritation … I wasn't sure. He had stopped writing.

"Yes," I replied, inhaling slowly, "because … you never know … now … when something freakish might come along and ruin your day."

Crane _click-clicked_ his pen and placed it on top of his clipboard.

"But how do you know?" he asked, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms.

"How do I know what?"

"How do you know there's anything to be afraid of?" Crane said, his dark eyes glinting behind his makeshift mask.

"Because …" I began.

"Because you believe that to be the case."

"… right," I finished.

"And so fear," Crane continued, "is belief. The Knight is afraid of the Dragon only because he believes that it can burn him to cinders. Consequently, fear is an entirely rational phenomenon, because people don't believe things without reason. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Sure," I said, while slowly trying to inch the satchel closer to me.

"And what does that imply?" Crane asked, his eyes no longer on me, but staring into the darkness. "It implies … that there are no irrational fears. The Dragon can breathe fire. That cave really does lead straight to Hell. And there actually are monsters under your bed. Maybe it's been a while since you've looked, but they're still there, _dying_ to get reacquainted."

In the silence that followed, I did not move. Crane reached forward, picked up his pen, and began rolling it slowly through his fingers.

"Anhedonia," Crane said, thoughtfully. "I treated someone with that affliction in my clinical practice. I remember she came into my office, one day, and said: 'Doctor, I just don't understand what all the fuss is about.' And do you know what popped into my head, right then and there?"

Crane fixed his gaze on me.

"' _What if I drove a spike through your eyeball? Do you think you'd understand then?_ ' And why did I think that? Because … the sweetness of pleasure is derived from the temporary absence of pain. The momentary reprieve. The valley between mountains. Being inextricably linked, you are bound to lose the sensation of pleasure, if you stop looking for pain."

 _Click-click_ went the pen.

"Perhaps you'd like to be reacquainted," Crane said, softly.

"Attention," intoned the cool, mechanical voice, slicing through the deathly stillness. "All Yellow-Grade Patients are required to be present in their assigned rooms in – five – minutes. Roll will be taken. Thank you."

The echo of the voice faded away.

Crane closed his eyes briefly.

"Unfortunately," he said primly, "we'll have to cut our session short."

He took hold of his clipboard, stood up, and reached down. I moved my foot off his satchel just before he picked it up and slung it over his shoulder once more. Crane's eyes drifted over the stack of books on the table before me.

"Good luck with your chess game," he said, before turning and gliding into the shadows.

"Freak," I muttered to myself. But only after I was certain Crane had left the library, and was far away.


	3. Chapter 3

"No … no. And no. That's not it all."

Yawning, Edward lifted up one of his bishops and knocked over my last remaining knight. I pressed my lips together and stared at the board, desperately trying to remember some of the strategies I had read at the library the previous night. Edward watched my furrowed brow, smiling in a self-satisfied kind of way.

"You look terrible," he said candidly, "rough night, perhaps?"

"It was a little frustrating, I suppose," I replied. I was about to make my move, when a shadow suddenly fell across the chessboard.

I looked up, and saw someone standing silently at our table. It was a rather tall man, with sharp, angular features that most people would have considered handsome. Except for the fact that half his face was burned to a crisp.

"Hello Harvey," Edward said.

"You're late," Harvey said curtly, his uneven gaze passing briefly over me before settling malignantly on my opponent. Edward theatrically raised his wrist and surveyed it, while deliberately widening his eyes.

"Oh, golly, you are right about that, my friend."

Edward lowered his arm and indicated the chessboard with a sweeping gesture.

"But as you can _clearly_ see, I am occupied. But don't you fret, I'll be along shortly."

He shot me a sardonic look, while I made my next move. Harvey's good eye narrowed, and he crossed his arms.

"Do no try my patience, Nygma," he said, slowly and callously.

"Oh, lighten up," Edward replied, immediately and unhesitatingly pushing one of his pieces forward, "just … find some way to pass the time. Perhaps you could make small talk with Chatterbox here. I gather that he was a patient at your very own Sunshine Medical Center."

Harvey turned his horribly scarred face towards me.

Oh. _That_ Harvey. You might think me stupid, _mate_ , for not putting it together earlier. But I had other things on my mind, I suppose. Anyway, I remembered that when Harvey Dent ran for mayor, one of his selling points was the opening of a new facility for the mentally ill. Even back then, everyone knew Arkham was a hellhole. They were going to call it the Dent Medical Center … but then _it_ happened, and after that it just would have been in bad taste. They did build it eventually, changing the name to Sunshine, as a testament to "Gotham's Bright Future", or something asinine like that.

Harvey was still giving me a strange look. I supposed, perhaps, that he still felt some measure of emotional connection to that place, despite the fact that it was doing its best to distance itself from him.

"It was very nice," I told him, untruthfully.

Something very odd happened to Harvey's face when I said this. The unscarred side of his face formed into a kind of sad, but also strangely proud, expression. But the other part, the terrible side, contorted into a vengeful, rage-filled look. The two faces mixed unpleasantly with each other, and Harvey looked weird indeed. I glanced at Edward, but he did not seem at all surprised at this. Perhaps this sort of thing was par for the course for Harvey.

And then a wicked little idea popped into my head.

Under normal circumstances, I might have reconsidered. But it had been a rather stressful couple of days. And I really wanted needle someone.

"Actually," I began, loudly and clearly, "Sunshine Medical Center was a dump heap. One of the worst establishments I have ever seen. A monument to filth and corruption."

And, like magic, the expressions on Harvey's face reversed themselves. The unscarred portion twisted in anger and resentment, while the terrible half split itself into a savage grin of pleasure. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Edward look up sharply at me.

"No, wait," I continued, "it's coming back to me. SMC was alright. Actually, better than alright. A veritable heaven on earth, as a matter of fact."

Once again, Harvey's faces transformed themselves into their opposites. I let out a soft chuckle, I couldn't help it. I could see that Edward was glaring at me warningly now, but I ignored it.

"On the other hand," I said, but then stopped. Harvey's faces were suddenly no longer divided against each other. He was staring directing at me with a single, hateful expression. And then he raised his fist over the table and opened it. Out fell a silver coin that tumbled downwards through the air and landed, spinning, on the table.

Oops.

"Um," I said, raising a my right index finger in a clarifying manner, "what I _meant_ to say was –"

The coin landed flat on the table, displaying a scratched and mutilated face upwards. An instant later, Harvey' hand shot forward, seized my upraised finger, and viciously bent it backwards. _Snap_ went the bone, and a gasp of shock and pain was torn from my lips.

But I didn't have much time to dwell on it, because immediately afterward Harvey's knuckles crashed into the side of my head. The next thing I knew, I was on the floor with my ears ringing. The dark shadow of Harvey Dent towered above me, both hands curled into fists.

He drove his foot into my stomach. Then Harvey dropped down to my level, drew back his fist, and proceeded to pummel my face again and again. I just lay there, curled up protectively, unable to do anything but absorb the barrage of blows and hope it would stop soon.

And, miraculously, it did. Through a haze of pain, I saw two of the asylum guards appear behind Harvey and seize him. I thought he might start going after them, but he didn't. He didn't struggle at all, in fact, just let himself be pulled away from me. But he stared murderously down at me all the while.

And then there were orderlies in white bending over me, helping me up and towards the door. The last thing I saw was Edward, bending forward and casually tipping over my king.

"Amateurish," he said, disdainfully.

* * *

The next time I opened my eyes, all I saw was a blinding, white light. I was also immediately aware that my face hurt an awful lot. I could feel dried blood on it, and it seemed like there was a lot of swelling. My broken finger also felt like it was encased in some kind of splint.

"Welcome, mortal," said a deep and booming voice.

My vision seemed to be slowly adjusting to the light, but everything still remained white. This was because, I realized a moment later, everything around me _was_ white. Pretty much.

I was lying in a bed covered in a white cover, in a long white room that was filled with other white beds. There were tall, arching windows on the wall with flowing white drapes hanging about them. And there was a bearded man standing at the foot of my bed, with a white sheet draped over him like a toga.

"Hi," I said vaguely. And then, after a pause, "I'm not dead, am I?"

"No," the bearded man said in his deep voice, "you are not dead. Zeus has saved you from the dark abyss."

"Zeus?"

"Zeus," he replied, indicating himself. "Son of Cronos. King of Olympus. Lord of gods and mortals. From on high I watched you fall, and I stretched forth my hand, and delivered you from destruction."

"Oh," I said.

Before the bearded man could speak again, I heard the sound of footsteps approaching.

"That's enough, Maxie," said a voice. Turning my head, I saw the speaker was an old and grey-haired woman in a white doctor's coat. "Please lie back down, you really need your rest."

Maxie Zeus slowly turned his head slowly, and fixed the doctor with an authoritative look.

"See to it," he said, commandingly, "that our guest is refreshed with all the pleasures our dear Olympus has to offer."

"Worry not," the doctor replied, "it shall be so."

Maxie Zeus nodded in a satisfied kind of way, and then swept down the long room to a bed at the far end.

"He's constantly being sent here," the doctor confided in me when Maxie had passed out of earshot, "some of the other patients get a real kick out of beating him up. And, I must admit, sometimes it does seem like he's asking for it, with all his high and mighty talk."

"Why doesn't he just blast 'em all to hell?" I asked snidely. The doctor smiled wanly at me. But then she proceeded to talk about my injuries, and what she'd done, and recovery, and things like that. I tuned most of it out.

"Now, listen," the doctor said, when she finally got to the end of it, "I could technically release you now. But … I know what it's like down there. If you like, I can allow you to spend the night here."

I thought about it, and then said that I'd like that.

But as it turned out, _mate_ , that was a mistake.


	4. Chapter 4

I was awakened in the dead of night by the sound of music. I couldn't tell exactly where it was coming from, but it sounded like an old gramophone. It was slowly churning out a sad, mournful song. Something about love lost and forgetting. The usual things, I suppose.

The drapes had been drawn back from the tall window on the wall facing me. Silhouetted in the moonlight was the figure of Maxie Zeus, his back to me, gazing out the window.

 _"… I wish today would pass away … and tomorrow, too,"_ sang the song.

In the daylight, Maxie had seemed overblown, theatrical, and utterly ridiculous. But now, half-hidden in the shadows, his form as uncannily still as an ancient statue, I could almost believe he was a little … godlike. And then, quite suddenly, Zeus spoke in his deep and sultry voice.

"Imagine," he began, without turning around or giving any indication that he knew I was awake and listening, "that a great iron chain was let down from the heavens to the earth. And at the top I held it fast, while all you who are gods and all you who are mortals took hold of the other end … Truly, I say to you, not even so could you drag down Zeus from the sky to the ground, not Zeus the High Lord, though you try until you grow weary. But whenever I might be so minded, I could drag you up, and earth and sea and all with you. For so much stronger am I than the gods, and stronger by far than mortals."

And then he did turn around, his eyes stormy and his face hard. He fixed his gaze on me, and then, with a few long strides he crossed the distance to where I lay. I did my best to meet his eyes with gumption.

After a few long moments, he spoke.

"It was not without reason," he began, crossing his arms, "that I delivered you from the abyss."

"That so?" I said.

"Indeed," he continued, "I have appointed a task for you. A quest. A labor."

"I didn't know that sort of thing still happened," I said, a little cautiously.

"In the depths of Tartarus," Maxie Zeus continued, importantly, "there is a box. A plain, unadorned, wooden box. But its contents are of the utmost value. It would not due for any but a god to hold it. And that is what I wish you to retrieve for me."

A momentary pause settled between, as the gramophone continued its dirge.

"Tartarus, you say?" I asked.

He nodded.

"I think," I said carefully, "that might be a little far away … for me."

"Nonsense," Maxie Zeus said, "it's in the east wing of the fifth floor. Beside the theater."

"Oh," I said, momentarily stymied.

"But," he continued, "you will need this."

And he produced (from somewhere in his makeshift toga) a small, brass key, and placed it on my bedside table.

"Are you … supposed to have that?" I asked.

"There is nothing I cannot have," Maxie replied, his face deadly serious. "And so," he continued after a pause, "will you do what I ask of you?"

"Yes," I said, with absolutely no intention of seeing it through. At least at the time.

"Excellent," Maxie Zeus replied, smiling for the first time since I had met him, "a god does not forget those who serve him well."

* * *

Unfortunately, though, I actually did end up giving it a shot. Now, when I was discharged from the infirmary, I really did have no intention whatsoever of looking for Maxie's (possibly nonexistent) box. However, his last statement stuck with me for a while. And, later on that day, I happened to pass in front of the library, and I was reminded of my interview with crazy Dr. Crane. This in turn brought to mind Harvey's over reactionary assault on my finger and face. And it occurred to me that in a place like Arkham, it might not be the worst thing in the world to have a friend. Or the closest thing to a friend in this place. More like a temporarily non-aggressive associate who owed me a favor. Yes, it would probably be good to have one of those … even if the sanity of the associate in question had dropped irretrievably into the gutter.

And so, I made my way to the fifth floor. I didn't realize the asylum had a theater, but there it was when I stepped off the stairs. Right across the hallway was a pair of fancy double doors, and an engraved plaque that read SIONIS MEMORIAL AMPITHEATER. Interesting. I wondered if the patients and staff ever put on shows.

Anyway, upon directing my gaze around the hallway, I soon spotted another set of doors down the hallway from the theatre. Except that these had an iron chain locking them shut and a very plain sign above them that read CLOSED FOR REFURBISHMENT. Very interesting.

I walked over to the locked doors, my footsteps echoing throughout the empty hallway. When I reached it, I glanced about, just to make sure no construction worker (or whoever they sent to do these refurbishing things) came up behind me and told me off. Then I remembered I was in an asylum, and I could just pretend I was crazy.

And so, with the freeing sensation that I could no longer be held accountable for my actions rising within me, I placed the brass key in the padlock and turned it. With a sharp click it unlocked, the chain falling downward. With a smile, I pushed open one of the doors and walked inside.

Another hallway stretched before me, though this one was long, dark, and empty. Very dusty, too. Paint was peeling off the walls all over the place, and the floor was dirty and grimy as all hell. I guess that refurbishment thing never happened. Probably never would, either.

The Forgotten Wing of the Asylum. How utterly storybook.

I took a step forward, and immediately felt (and heard) a _squelch_ beneath my shoe. I looked down. What I had taken to be dirt and grime covering the floor was, in actuality, what appeared to be mud.

That was odd. I didn't think a place like this got a lot of precipitation. Perhaps someone had left a window open … after strewing the floor in dirt.

Glancing about the hallway, I saw that all of the doors in this wing were open, except for one at the far end. I stared at it for a bit. There seemed to be more of the muddy substance spreading outward from that particular door. Almost as if it was all oozing from out of that room.

A little perturbed, I squelched my way over to the nearest room and peered inside. The interior looked fairly similar to my own personal cell: a bed, a table, a sink. No window. I took a quick look around, but I didn't see anything that looked like a box.

A review of the next cell yielded the same result, as well as the third. Upon exiting that last room, I once more appraised the closed door down the hall.

But who are we kidding here, _mate_? If Maxie's box existed, I knew it had to be in there. A wing full of doors, and only one of them is closed, with an ominous substance leaking out of it? Of course that would be the place to hide anything remotely valuable.

The only problem was that that door _was_ pretty ominous, and I wanted nothing to do with it. But, I told myself, these are the kind of things one has to do in order to make temporarily non-violent associates. And so, with trepidation in my step, I walked down the surprisingly long hallway towards the closed door and stopped in front of it.

After taking a few fortifying breaths, I slowly turned the knob and pushed the door open. I felt a slight resistance (probably the mud), but it soon gave way to reveal a cell, like all the others. Except that this particular room was drenched in muck.

The floor was covered in several inches of gooey mud, the bed was caked in a dried casket of the stuff, and the substance seemed to be oozing out of the very walls themselves. It was so thick, that on the far wall, I saw that someone had drawn a smiley face in the stuff.

Other than that disgustingness, though, the room was devoid of things to be trepidatious about. I exhaled, mostly relieved, but also feeling a bit stupid about my nerves. But then I glanced more fully about the room, and my eyes alighted on the table in the corner. Sitting atop it was rectangular shape which, like everything else in the room, was obscured by mud.

Mentally bracing myself, I trudged through the sea of sludge towards the corner, and lifted the object up. I wiped it clean as best I could, revealing that it was, in fact, _the_ box.

Well, I suppose it might not have been _the_ box. But, seriously, how many boxes could there be in this particular wing?

Upon closer inspection, I saw that it was indeed wooden and unadorned, as Maxie had said. Despite its humdrum appearance, I was intrigued. I was just about to pry it open, when a sudden _humming_ noise broke through the stillness. It lasted about three seconds, and then stopped abruptly.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood straight up, and I felt my pulse quickening.

It sounded very much like it had come from behind me. I tensed and, gripping the box tightly, turned around. But there didn't seem to be anything different in the room.

Then the noise came again, like a kind of course, ragged breathing, and I realized that it was emanating from under the bed.

I swallowed hard, all my previous trepidation returning as the strange dull roar sounded a third time, while the mud at the edge of the bed slowly rippled outward.

And then a hand, so drenched in muck that know glimpse of clothing or skin was visible, emerged from the shadows beneath the bed, its fingers hungrily grasping at the air.


	5. Chapter 5

_Swish, slush, slop._

I leaned my head back against the wall, and sank down to the floor. There was a door to my left, ajar. It was too late to close it. I could already hear the muck … thing … shambling down the hallway.

 _Swish, slush, slop_.

I had caught a brief glimpse of it as I had bolted out of its room, box in hand. I saw its two mud-drenched hands pulling itself out of the darkness. And I saw a face completely shrouded in the same disgusting stuff, with features so deformed and melted, it looked like they were fashioned out of clay. And very badly so.

I didn't know if the thing was hostile … but I was guessing it was. Because if anything in this world deserved to be called a monster, it was that.

Of course, that precious second spent looking over my shoulder had cost me dearly. Even with one's eyes forward, that mud was hard to run through. With my gaze backward, I immediately lost my footing and sprawled face-first into the muck. That stuff did not become any less disgusting pressed against my eyeballs, or clogging up my nose and mouth.

I raised myself up and spat muck out of my mouth, just before a small tidal wave of it engulfed me. I guess that was caused by the thing pulling itself fully out from under the bed. The box – which had been thrown from my grasp when I tumbled – was carried out of the room and into the hallway by the rising tide of filth.

Not daring to look behind me again, I struggled to my feet and moved as quickly as I could out of the room and down the corridor. I passed the box (which was being slowly carried away) and snatched it up in an instant, before ducking into a random room to hide.

And that just about brings us up to the present, _mate_.

 _Swish, slush, slop_.

It was very close now. It might even have been standing outside. Then there was silence, and it seemed to have stopped moving. I held my breath.

And then I heard a distorted, mangled voice with odd accents and cadences, issuing from the corridor.

 _"_ **You … stole … my … box** _."_

"Uh, what box?" I called out without thinking. Then I swore, mentally, to myself because now it knew where I was. And sure enough, it began _swishing, slushing,_ and _slopping_ it way forward again.

As quickly as I could, I sidled into the corner where there were (slightly) more shadows. Sure, it wasn't a great move, but it was the only thing I could think of.

But then, miraculously, I saw an amorphous, dripping figure haltingly pass right in front of the open door, and then keep on moving down the hallway.

That was bizarre.

Perhaps it was a trick, or a trap. Or maybe … since it was covered in mud … its sight and hearing weren't all that great. Hell, for all I knew, it was made of the stuff and didn't even have proper features.

 _"_ **Why did take you take it?** _"_ I heard the thing say, from farther away now.

"Still not sure what you're on about, friend," I said, rising to a crouch and moving slowly to the door. I peered around the edge and down the hall, just in time to see its shambling form disappear into a room right next to the double doors that led out of the wing. I guessed it was going to search all the rooms, methodically, from beginning to end.

" **Going to** _ **kill**_ **you** _,"_ spat the monster, emerging into the corridor once more.

I thought about trying to give the box back to it. Dying might not be the worst thing in the world, but it was certainly up there. In fact, it was number seven on my list of Things to Avoid. And 'Lose a Wooden Box' was a lot farther down, somewhere in the ten thousands.

On the other hand, I kind of doubted it was in a bargaining mood. Maybe it was, but that wasn't exactly a risk I wanted to take. No, the best thing to do was probably to just get out of this place and not look back.

I decided to wait. I'd stay put until it had gone into the room next to the one I was hiding in, and then I'd book it for the door. A great plan? No. A plan? Yes.

So I gripped the box a little tighter, as it slushed and slopped its way from room to room.

 _"_ **Never** _…_ **changing** _,"_ I heard it say at one point. It was speaking in a slightly quieter voice, as if talking itself. " **Always** _…_ **the** **same** _…_ _ **stupid**_ … **people**."

"You're not stupid, then?" I called out.

" **Not** **a** **stupid** … **person** …" it replied, " **I am everyone. I am everything. Don't need stupid people like you. Don't need anyone** _._ "

I could tell it was a lot closer now, probably just a few yards from my door. Straining my ears, I heard it slowly move itself into another room, its voice growing slightly fainter as it said:

" **I have built myself a heaven out of hell** _."_

Well, now was as good a time as any, I thought to myself. As quick as I could, I leapt to my feet, turned the corner, and ran down the hall. I heard a roar of frustration behind me, and much squishing and squelching as the man-sized mountain of mud hurled itself out into the corridor. I didn't look back, though, so I guess occasionally you do learn from your mistakes.

With the box cradled under my right arm I thrust one of the double doors at the end of the hall open with my left hand and finally emerged out of the forgotten wing, leaving a trail of muddy footprints in my wake.

When I reached the crossroads with the stairs on my left and the theater doors on my right, I took a sharp turn through the latter. Does that seem counterproductive to you, _mate_? It was, but I suppose that in those few wild moments, the thought that crossed my mind was that the stairs were the obvious place to go. It seemed, to me, that that was where the mud monster would most likely go first. That was my reasoning in the moment. And so, reverting to precedent, I chose hiding over running.

I emerged into the theater and stopped short, as the door slowly swung shut behind me. An array of fancy chairs were spread across the (surprisingly not very large) room. The seating area was bisected by a carpeted walkway that ran down the inclined floor from the door to the stage. The stage itself was about four feet high, painted black, with large red curtains drawn across it.

And there were three other people in the theater as well. Two of them were on the stage, and one of them was standing in the first row, leaning against a chair. They were all looking at me as I entered.

I recognized two of them. Edward was standing smack in center stage, looking just as surprised to see me as I was to see him. I did not recognize the second man on the stage. He had a very gaunt face and deep-set, hollow eyes, like a skull. He was looking at me with absolutely no interest on his face whatsoever.

Finally, and to my great disappointment, I saw that Harvey was the man standing below the stage. He did not look surprised, or uninterested. He looked angry.

"Well, well," I heard Edward say. I guess he had gotten over his surprise a lot quicker than I had. "If it isn't Chatterbox … with a box. And I thought I was clever."

I could tell by their body language and the way they were staring at me that I had walked into something I really shouldn't have. They'd probably been planning something secret and nefarious. And I could tell that I would have to do some quick thinking to get out of here.

"Um," I said, "just looking for the restroom … guess this isn't it … so I'll just be going now."

I turned and put my free hand on the door. But just then I heard the unmistakable sound of the monster's slushing and slopping growing louder behind it.

So this situation was just peachy. I lowered my hand and turned back to the stage.

Only to find that Harvey was striding right towards me. Before I could think what to do he came straight up and forcefully thrust me down to the floor. For the second time that day, the box flew from hands as I hit the carpet. Then I tumbled down the incline, right to the foot of the stage.

I only had a moment to appreciate the fact that I was now bruised as well as mud-spattered (oh, and my finger was still in a splint, as well), before Harvey appeared above me again. He reached down, hoisted me bodily on my feet again, and then thrust me into one of the front row seats.

Behind Harvey, I could see that Edward had leapt off the stage and was bending down to pick up the box. He straightened up, examining the wooden container with interest. Then he looked at me.

"What's this, then?" Edward asked.

"Nothing," I replied.

"Nothing?" he repeated, raising his eyebrows. "Forgive me if I find that hard to believe."

Edward raised the box to his face and turned it slowly through his fingers, his green eyes rapidly scanning every inch of its surface.

"No sign of intricacies, electrical components … or even a locking mechanism. What intriguing ordinariness."

His eyes flicked to me, and he smiled.

"I suppose we'll just have to open it up and take a look, won't we?"

I didn't smile back. I didn't do anything, as a matter of fact, except sit there in silence. This was mostly because Harvey was still standing close by, and there was a threatening gleam in his eye.

Edward carefully placed a hand on the lid of the box and eased it open. And as he did so, I saw the look on his face change from anticipation, to surprise, to disappointment.

"Nothing," Edward repeated again, a little incredulously. He flipped the box around to show Harvey (who didn't really seem to care, anyway), and I caught a glimpse of an empty, wooden interior. And at that moment, I felt like no punishment in Hell was too cruel for Maxie Zeus.

However, I did see that there appeared to be an inscription carved into the inside of the lid. Edward turned the box back towards him, his eyes quickly running over the lines.

" _Dear_ _M_.," Edward read out loud, " _Congratulations on the role, I'm sure you'll be famous in no time! Sincerely, S_."

Edward casually let the box fall to the floor, and it landed on the carpet with a dull thud.

"Well," he said, a little sneeringly, "isn't that just precious?"

Harvey cracked his knuckles, the sharp sound echoing through the theater.

"Unfortunately," Edward said, turning his gaze towards me again, "I'm afraid you've put us in a bit of a predicament."

"Fortunately," Harvey said in a low, gravelly voice, "there's a very simple solution."

Edward shot Harvey a kind of warning glance. In the ensuing silence, I noted that the man with the skull-like face had neither moved nor spoken this entire time. In fact, he looked rather bored with it all.

"Quite frankly," I said, "I don't see an issue here. As far as I'm concerned, the three of you were having a tea party here. So how about I just … get on out of here, and we all go about our business."

"Oh, that would be lovely, wouldn't it?" Edward said, "But here's the thing: You _do_ know something's up. And what if, one of these days, you're feeling a bit down about this whole asylum lark. And you might think to yourself: what could I do to improve my lot? And then, perhaps, you find yourself talking to a doctor, an orderly, or even a guard. And maybe you'll let slip something about a little tea party you stumbled upon in an out-of-the-way place. Goodness, can you imagine?"

Edward gave a mocking gasp and covered his mouth.

"And what if … heaven forbid … that led to the three of us being investigated. Or even reprimanded. Because you see, Dent here …"

Edward turned and placed his hand on Harvey's shoulder.

"… he's on his last straw with the administration, after _you_ goaded him into losing his temper. One more toe across the line, and he'll be demoted to Red-Grade. Solitary confinement. And I'm afraid we just can't risk that."

All in all, this was turning out to be a rather disappointing day.


	6. Chapter 6

There was a painting on the wall.

But what the hell was it a painting _of_?

It was a very dark and murky image, comprised of mostly blacks and greys, with a few splashes of red thrown in there. And although I could tell that these shapes were arranged to represent specific things, it was all too blotchy to make out distinctly. Like an oil painting viewed too close.

"Did you hear me?" said a voice.

Oh, that's right … I was supposed to be talking to someone. I flicked my gaze down from the painting to the person sitting beneath it. Doctor Something-or-other. The same one I had met with on my first day. We were sitting across from each other in her office.

"I said …" the doc began, after I stared blankly at her for a few moments, "… that you've had quite an eventful first week here."

I looked back up at the painting. Studying it a second time, I noted that there were two rather large red blotches in each of the upper corners, that then ran down the edges of the painting. That had to signify … something.

"A visit to the hospital wing already," I heard the doctor say, "and yesterday one of the orderlies says you were covered from head-to-foot in mud. He says you were strolling down the hallway, as if absolutely nothing in the world was wrong … perhaps you'd like to talk about that."

Unbidden, an image from yesterday evening arose in my mind: me, sitting in the front row of the theater, while the trio of freaks huddled together on the stage, whispering about what they ought to do.

I shook my head fractionally from side to side, still keeping my eyes locked on the painting.

Silence filled the small office of Doctor Something-or-other. Out of the bottom of my eye I could tell she was studying my file. For my part, I continued to study the painting.

"Perhaps," the doc said after about a minute, "we should try constructing your 'big picture' goals again." She picked up a blank notepad and clicked her pen. I was unhelpfully reminded of my conversation with Dr. Crane.

"You don't ever lend those out, do you?" I asked, dropping my gaze from the painting and pointing at my file.

"Excuse me?"

"Those psychological evaluations. Do you ever lend them out … or let people photocopy them, or anything like that?"

She looked at me with an expression of slight surprise, and then with one of slight amusement.

"No, of course not. Not without good reason," the doc said. "It's private and personal information."

"Yeah, that's what I thought," I said. The doctor made a quick scribble.

"And does the idea of other people intruding on your privacy bother you?"

"What do you think?" I replied shortly. She made another infuriating note.

"Anyway," the doctor continued, after another minute's silence, "Big picture goals. What are yours?"

I would have immediately mouthed off that I didn't have any, but I knew she'd probably just nod in a knowing kind of way, and then make a note. So I looked back up at the painting, and tried to figure out what those red blotches were supposed to be.

"Is there something troubling you?" I heard the doc ask.

Curtains. That was it. Those blotches in the corner and on the edges were reminiscent of red curtains, like on a stage. Much like the stage I had seen yesterday.

"I can't help you if I don't know what the problem is," the doc said. "So … what's the matter?"

"Nothing is the matter. Nothing at all."

"Oh, please. Something is always the matter."

The more I looked at it, the more it seemed like the cluster of black and red blotches in the center of the painting, between the curtains, was supposed to represent a human figure. But if that was the case, then there was something seriously wrong with that person's head. It looked like it was splitting in half or something.

"There are," the doc said, briefly consulting her notes, "four main causes of anxiety for human beings. Perhaps I could run through them, and you let me know if any of them seem particularly distressful to you, alright?"

I didn't respond, and I guess she took that as the signal to go ahead.

"Isolation," she read, and then looked up at me.

"I seem to be doing alright so far," I said, with a touch of sarcasm in my voice. We were on an island, after all. But the doc didn't seem get it.

"Fear of freedom or responsibility," she continued.

"Not exactly a concern, considering my current predicament," I replied. And the doc began scribbling away. Of course.

"Death," she said, still writing.

"It's number seven," I said. The doc stopped writing, momentarily.

"What do you mean by that?"

"Never mind."

"Well then …" the doc said, making a final note, "lastly, we have the general sense of meaninglessness. Has that ever bothered you before?"

"Nope," I said.

The doc's eyes flicked up, and she surveyed me carefully over her glasses.

"That's good," the doc said, after a long moment. "It shouldn't."

I tilted my head slightly to the side, and held her gaze, unblinkingly.

"It shouldn't bother you," she continued, "because it's true. And that's a good thing. You are free to make up your own meaning."

I reverted my eyes to the painting. Still couldn't figure out what the hell it was supposed to be.

"That would be my advice for you," the doc said, "decide what it is that you want, and construct your value system around that. And just go and live those values. Be that person you want to be. And do you know what's beautiful about that? It's all contingent on _your_ will. So if you wake up one morning and decide you want to be someone else …"

And that was when I understood. The figure in the middle of the painting was, in fact, a jester, like the kind you'd see in a king's court. Dressed in black and red and topped with a cap and bells, the dark jester capered all alone in a field of grey, with the whole scene framed by the red curtains.

"… then you go right ahead and _be_ someone else. Just like that."

Having finally understood what the painting was trying to portray, I dropped my gaze down from it.

"So," said Doctor Something-or-other, "who do you want to be?"

"I'm happy just the way I am, thanks," I said. The doc stared at me for a moment, and then smiled in a surprisingly cold kind of way.

"Really? You want to be the kind of person who gets thrown into in an asylum and beaten up by his fellow inmates?"

I shrugged in an exaggerated kind of way, raising my hands to shoulder-length, with the palms facing upward. Another awkward silence fell between us.

"Sunshine Medical Center," the doc said eventually, tapping my psychological evaluation, "diagnosed you with anhedonia. Do you think you have anhedonia?"

"Well …" I began.

"Because I don't think you do," she interrupted, "I think you think you're a person who has anhedonia. And wouldn't you like to think you were someone who didn't?"

I was beginning to wonder where exactly the doc had gotten her Ph.D. Or even if she had.

"Have you had many opportunities chance to interact – nonviolently, of course – with the other patients?"

"Not so much," I replied.

"You ought to consider putting more effort into that area. I think speaking with a few of them could be very helpful for you. A few in particular have done really great work in crafting their personhoods. They've created entirely new personalities for themselves, and you'd be amazed at the difference if you could meet their past selves. I could arrange a few choice meetings, if you like."

"Don't bother," I said.

A timer suddenly went off, somewhere on the doc's desk.

"Well … that brings our session to a close. Why don't you think about everything we've talked about, and we'll pick this up next time. Maybe try lightening yourself up a bit, in the meantime."

I thought about that as I got up and headed for the door. As I placed my hand on the doorknob, something occurred to me. I turned around.

"Hey, doc," I said, and she looked up from her notes. "How many psychotherapists does it take to change a lightbulb?"

The doc didn't answer, but she did give me that cold look again. But I continued on, anyway.

"Just one," I wryly replied, "so long as the lightbulb wants to change."

* * *

As I turned down the corridor where my cell was located, I received an unpleasant surprise. Edward was leaning against my door, his arms crossed. I was about to pivot back the way I'd come, but he spotted me immediately and waved sardonically. So I proceeded towards him as casually as I could.

"Chatterbox," Edward said when I reached him, "the fellas and I have been talking, and we've reached a decision."

He gave a quick look around the hallway (even though we were clearly alone) and then leaned forward and whispered to me:

"We're not going to do you in. Yet. Because, you see, the bad side of Dent's coin came up for you. So he's got to kill you. But he's agreed to postpone his judgment until you make up for blundering into our little theater group. And as fate would have it, there is a job you can do for us … before we blow this pop stand."


	7. Chapter 7

The box was still lying on the carpeted floor of the theater. I stared at it while Edward said things. That guy really liked to hear himself talk.

The others were there, too, Harvey and the hollow-eyed man. I'd heard him referred to as Sionis by his compatriots. The name sounded vaguely familiar.

"… and we've got people waiting for us on the mainland," Edward was saying, "when we make it there."

"If." I clarified.

Harvey narrowed his good eye at me, while Edward smiled humorlessly.

"Chatterbox," he began, with something of a disappointed sigh, "you are currently in very deep water. Stop making things worse for yourself."

I said nothing.

And Edward continued talking. He went on and on about how he'd been planning an escape from the asylum for months, and how clever it was all going to be. And then he explained how, due to an ever-tightening net of security and other events beyond his control, he had been forced to abandon his original scheme. And so Edward had had to improvise, if the others and he were going to escape from the asylum on schedule.

"I must be out of here by next Wednesday," he kept saying.

Edward also kept repeating that under no circumstances would I be allowed to accompany them, because it just introduced one too many variables into the plan. And that was just fine by me. I couldn't imagine anything worse than creeping through the dark with Edward, Harvey, and the mysterious-skull-faced-man.

No, my reward for helping them out was to not be murdered by Harvey. Or so Edward had promised. If that meant anything. These three didn't exactly seem like paragons of virtue, and they probably had five aces up their sleeves, each.

Perhaps it wouldn't be a terrible idea to acquire an ace of my own.

"Anyway," Edward said, breaking into the midst of my thoughts, "this is where you come in."

I looked up at him.

"The sewers," he said, slyly.

"What?" I asked.

"It's a mess down there," Edward explained, "a tangled web drainpipes spreading deep under the rock of this island. They just kept adding to it, with no plan whatsoever, and now it's a literal labyrinth. But … the wastewater's got to go somewhere, right? It has to spill into the harbor at some point. And the past few weeks we've been trying to map it out as best we can, looking to find an exit point. But since we're all Yellow-Grade, we can only be out of our cells for so long before they come looking. Not the case for you, Green-Grade. You can amble around as long as you want. 'Course, the sewers are out-of-bounds, so try not to get caught anyway."

"So …" I said, thinking about all that, "… you want me to wander down in the sewers until I find a way out ... just so you three can try to make a swim for Gotham?"

"Yes, that's exactly it," Edward replied.

"And," Harvey added quietly, "don't you dare come out until you've done just that."

So that was that. They told me where the entrance to the sewers was (accessed by a grate in floor at the deepest basement of the asylum), and Edward handed me some paper, a pen, and a cigarette lighter. I guess he thought that would be a sufficient enough light source down in the dark below. And then they made their way out.

I deliberately lagged behind, and when the door of the theater swung shut, I pivoted about and walked back toward the stage. Bending down, I picked up the mud monster's box. It was dusty, but otherwise appeared undamaged. Still empty, though, other than that inscription. I closed the lid, pressed it shut, and turned towards the door.

Only to find myself face-to-face with the hollow-eyed Sionis.

A heartbeat of silence passed. I blinked. He did not.

"Pardon me," I said carefully, "just, uh, heading for the door."

Sionis remained perfectly still, except for his eyes, which flicked down to the box I was carrying.

I'll be honest, _mate_. I was getting a little tired of patients concerning themselves with my business. And I certainly wasn't in the mood, now, when I was being forced by those same patients to explore a dank sewer for hours on end.

"Oh, are you interested in my box?" I asked snidely. "Because it's not for sale, so get lost."

Sionis looked back at my face. I did my best to glare menacingly at him. But his features remained blank and expressionless, as if he were a statue. For a few moments, that is.

And then, suddenly, everything about him changed. His blank expression melted into a jovial and relaxed visage, he smiled in a carefree manner, and a merry twinkle entered his eye. The change was so complete and so fast, it was as if a mask had dropped from his face. Or as if he had slipped one on.

"So sorry about that, old boy," Sionis said cheerily, "didn't mean to pry, I just couldn't contain my curiosity about your package. Didn't at all want to cause you affront, no, not at all."

It was now I who remained silent. In my experience, there were few things more perturbing than an overly friendly persona. So I just stood there, and studied him warily.

Sionis' smile faltered, and he peered at me in a vaguely concerned manner.

"You quite alright, old boy? You look a little out-of-sorts."

"Oh, I'm just peachy, _old boy_ ," I replied, layering a note of sarcasm on the last two words. Sionis put his hands in his pockets and leaned back slightly, his brow furrowed.

"Might be stress," Sionis said thoughtfully, "I would recommend you take it easy for a few days. But, of course, you've agreed to help the chaps and me with our little problem. Mighty kind of you, by the way."

He inclined his head thankfully.

An awkward moment passed.

"Anyway," Sionis said cheerfully, "let me get out of your way here."

He moved jauntily to the side and gestured up the walkway leading to the door. I immediately began striding up the incline, box in hand. And I almost made it out, too.

"Oh, one more thing," I heard the airy voice of Sionis say behind me, "forgive me, but I am mighty curious about what that there box means to you."

I stopped. I could have kept going, I suppose, just walked on out of there and not looked back. Except I knew that would only raise his suspicions. So I had some work to do.

"It's mine," I lied, turning back to face Sionis, who was still standing in front of the stage with his hands in his pockets. "It was a gift."

"How nice," Sionis said, "I take it, then, that the inscription inside refers to you?"

"Yes," I replied, keeping my voice level, "I wanted to be an actor before I came here."

"Splendid, splendid," Sionis said. "And what is the _role_ that it refers to, exactly?"

"Hamlet," I said promptly. It was the first thing that came to mind. Also the most obvious. I redundantly added: "It was for a play."

"That so?" Sionis said. He started walking up the incline. "That's rather impressive. How did you do?"

"Terrible," I said, "believe me, if you saw me acting, you'd be appalled."

"Ah, well, tough luck," said Sionis, shrugging. He stopped in front of me. "Hamlet's a hard one to do. All that back-and-forth, conflicted, inner demons stuff. You know what's funny about that story? If Hamlet had just done what the ghost had told him to do right away, things wouldn't have ended so messily for him. But instead, he decided to complicate everything, with all his little _schemes_. Wasn't that stupid of him?"

For a moment, the jovial features of Sionis seemed to flicker, and I saw the blank, hollow-eyed expression on his face again.

But it passed as quickly as it had come.

"Anyway," Sionis said, clapping me on the shoulder, "I'd hate to keep you away from that sewer business any longer. You are heading straight down there, aren't you?"

"Uh, yes," I said.

"Good, good," said Sionis. "Well, I do hope you can do it. I tell you, I just can't wait to get out of here …"

* * *

But I didn't go straight down there. I made like I was heading that way, just to shake Sionis, and then I doubled back up to the infirmary. Maxie Zeus was still there. Or, possibly, he had been discharged, beaten up, and checked-in again. Regardless, he seemed pleased to see me.

"Excellent," he said in his deep voice, as I handed the box over to him, "although the task must have been more laborious for you than I anticipated. I did not expect your return at such a late hour."

"I had to deal with a few things," I said.

"Well, no matter," Maxie replied, holding the box up to his eyes. Carefully, he eased its lid open, creating the smallest of cracks.

"And is she still there?" he breathed, peering inside.

"Who?" I asked.

"Hope, of course," Maxie replied, before sealing the box once more.

After that, I brought up the fact that he had indicated there would be a reward for delivering the box to him. I tried to explain to him about the sewers, and mapping them out, because I thought perhaps I could get him to do that unpleasant business for me. My ace in the hole. But I probably should have guessed it was a futile effort.

Maxie Zeus just shook his head, and said that it was not fitting for a mortal to command the will of a god. He promised that he would do me a favor, but it would be in his own way and in his own time. And then he asked me to leave.

So, resigning myself to the worst, I headed down to the sewers.


	8. Chapter 8

_Down to a no-good town_

 _Went the stranger with a frown_

The dim light provided by the cigarette lighter danced across the curved walls of the sewer pipe. I lifted it a little higher, towards the words that were scrawled on the grimy surface. I saw that the two short lines had been written in white chalk.

I was at a crossroads of sorts. A T-section, if you will, and dark tunnels stretched away to my left and to my right. The lighter wasn't exactly an efficient light source, either. I couldn't really make anything out farther than a few feet in front of me.

I had lost track of time a long time ago. At least, I thought it was a long time ago. I did know that I'd been wandering in the dark and the cold for far too long.

I glanced at the poetic lines again. Then I abruptly pivoted and headed confidently down the left hand tunnel. And then I spent another inestimable amount of time trudging through the muck and the dark of the sewers. The musty air clogged my nostrils, and brought to mind thoughts of dead and decaying things.

For a while the only thing I heard was the slush of my footsteps, and the faint echo produced by the drainpipe. But then, at a certain point, I heard something else. It was a quiet scratching noise, somewhere close behind me. I turned and lifted the light. But the darkness was too impenetrable for the feeble flame, and I couldn't make anything out. I continued forward, and a little while later I heard the scratching noise again. I listened as it grew louder, crescendoed, and then slowly faded away into silence.

A few steps farther, and the lighter illuminated another chalk message written scrawled across the drainpipe:

 _Remember to smile, but do not laugh_

 _Lest you tear your mind in half_

I glanced at it, and then continued on through the darkness. Clearly, someone else had been down here at some point. Perhaps that person was still here, lurking in the shadows. Or perhaps I would come across a rotting body, surrounded by fragments of chalk. I supposed that Edward or Harvey or Sionis might have written the messages when they had explored the sewers themselves, but I doubted it. With the possible exception of Edward, that didn't really seem like their kind of thing.

I heard the scratching noise again. Or, rather, I heard several scratching noises, all merging with one another, coming from both behind and in front of me. But I kept moving forward, until I could hear the sounds all about me. Casting my gaze around the circle of light produced by the lighter, I caught sight of several small, dark shapes flitting about its edges.

Rats.

I supposed they were attracted the light source. It was a little odd how they continued to swarm about the circle of light, but they didn't seem particularly vicious. And none of them came within kicking distance. So there was really nothing to be done.

And the journey through the dark continued, with my madly flickering light, and the retinue of rats creeping behind me.

* * *

 _But down in the dark is no place for the meek_

 _And of the horrors there I will not speak_

The words were inscribed above a stone archway. It was too dark to see inside. I glanced behind me. Although I still had not fully seen any of the rats, I could still hear them slinking about beside me. I had taken a lot of twists and turns to reach this place, whatever it was. I thought that I might as well see what was inside.

Lifting the dancing flame a little higher, I stepped through the archway and into the darkness.

I felt a flat, solid surface beneath my feet. There was no sewage water here. I had stepped up a small platform when passing through the arch, and I heard the rats scrambling over it behind me.

I walked a little further, and then I saw a glinting in the darkness. It was my dim light, reflecting off of something glass. Moving closer, I saw that there was a wooden table, pushed up against a brick wall. And on it there was strewn a multitude of glass containers. Bottles and beaker and jars and test tubes. Some of them were filled. Most of them were not. Using the wall I had discovered as a reference point, I passed around the perimeter of the room, as the rats that had made it over the step scurried into the corners.

There were four walls. There was a second entrance set into one of them. There were other tables as well, set against the walls. All of them were filled with laboratory equipment. And in the center of the room there was a ring of stones and a pile of wood. It looked, for all the world, as if it were a campfire sitting in a forest. There was even spit set over the wood, and a pot hanging from it. The only thing it was missing was the fire.

Some of the rats started squeaking. At first it was quiet, but then it grew louder, as if they were excited. Or terrified. I scanned the room with my eyes and light, but I saw nothing out of the ordinary. And I still couldn't catch sight of the rats.

When I turned back to the cold campfire, someone was standing beside it.

He was small and frail-looking. A gas mask covered his face, which he was tilting to the side, apparently bemused at my presence. There was a large rat cradled in his arms, and he was stroking it slowly. We just stared at one another, while the rats squeaked and scuttled about us.

"Who?" he said, eventually. Just the one word. His voice was quiet and raspy, like he hadn't used it in a while. I let the question hang in the air for a moment.

"What?" I asked, smiling slightly.

"You," he said, "from … up there?"

"You could say that," I said. "And I'm just … ah … passing through. Was curious about where the water goes, you know … and you wouldn't happen to know, would you?"

He continued to stroke the rat.

"Who you are?" I asked, out of the blue.

"Otis," he said softly, "Flannegan."

"And what are you doing down here, Mr. Flannegan?" I asked.

"Ending the world," Otis replied, the light of my flame flickering dimly in the glass eyepieces of his mask.

"That's ... rather ambitious of you," I said, "how exactly are you going to manage that?"

"Infection. Virus." Otis said, sharply punctuating the words. " _Plague_."

The rat in his arms turned its face towards me.

"Oh." I said.

From the moment I had seen Otis, I had suspected he was a patient escaped from the asylum. This little chat had confirmed my suspicions. However, I was wrong, insofar as Otis the World Ender clearly had no intention of escaping the asylum. Which, unfortunately, meant that he probably had no idea if there was an actual escape route through the sewers. And even if Otis did, he likely had no interest in revealing that information to me.

"I can show you where the water goes," Otis said, suddenly, "if you like."

I blinked. One of the rats made a chittering sound.

"Will you?" I asked.

"Yes," Otis replied, "if you light my fire."

He inclined his masked head toward the pile of wood that lay below the black pot. Then Otis gestured to the tables strewn with vials of liquid.

"It is essential for my work."

I considered his offer for about a minute. Then I bent down and held the flickering flame close to the dry fuel.

"Will it bother you? That you helped to end the world?" I heard Otis say, as flames licked the pieces of wood. In a surprisingly short time, there was a full-fledged fire crackling in the dark room, casting long, dancing shadows across the brick walls. I straightened up, and smiled at the small rat-man.

"Good luck with that, Mr. Flannegan," I said.

* * *

A quarter of an hour later, I stood at the edge of a precipice, looking out over the dark waters of Gotham Harbor. The circular opening carved into the rock of the island was about seven feet in diameter, and sewage water continuously rushed through it and plummeted down into the depths below. I cast my gaze over the city skyline in the distance. I had not seen it since I had entered the asylum. But it looked exactly the same, so I suppose I wasn't missing much.

Otis was standing behind me, and slightly to my right. He had been kind enough to draw me a map on the paper Edward had given me.

I could see that there had been iron bars covering the opening once, but they had all been twisted and broken apart. Otis would only say that the "monster" had done it. But now there was nothing to stop anyone from attempting an escape this way.

It occurred to me that I could try my luck, right now, and swim for the city. Considering the kind of people I had had the misfortune to meet in the asylum already, it was certainly an option worth considering. And I did consider it for a very long time, as I stood there in the flowing water, breathing in the crisp night air.

On the journey back through the sewers, I came across one last message scrawled in chalk:

 _His frowns did not help him, not at all_

 _The stranger was in for quite a long fall_


	9. Chapter 9

There was a storm brewing.

At least, that was what the television in the rec room kept saying. There were quite a lot of patients crowded about the room at the moment, eyes all glued to the flickering screen. Not for the weather updates, of course. They weren't that crazy. No, apparently there was something going down in the city. Something criminally insane. I couldn't bring myself to be interested, however. It was always the same story: bombs, bullets, and batarangs. And we all knew how it was going to end, anyway, so why did they bother?

That was why I was doing my best to tune out television, and the muttered comments of its watchers. Instead, I chose to concentrate on the chessboard in front of me. Edward didn't really care for whatever was going down, either. Probably too absorbed in his own machinations to care about that sort of thing. Consequently, he had agreed to one final game of chess with me.

Edward was in a good mood. I had given him the map of the sewers that Otis had drawn for me, and the three of them were going to put their plan into effect the next night. There had been a few tense moments after I had given them what they wanted, when it seemed like Harvey was about to bash my brains in. But Edward had talked him out of it. I got the sense that he was a little impressed, in spite of himself, in how quickly I had navigated the depths. I had neglected to mention my meeting with Mr. Flannegan to them

"Ah, Chatterbox," Edward said, languidly moving out his knight, "I'm afraid to say that a handful of games with me has not improved your tactical abilities whatsoever. If anything, they've deteriorated."

He yawned, while I studied the chessboard.

"Despite," Edward continued, "all of your pitiful grandstanding, you have not been able to keep your promise. You have failed to provide me with fresh challenge. But don't stress about it too much. I forgive you your strategic dearth. You did, in the end, manage to be of some use, albeit in quite an unexpected way."

He smiled slyly across the pieces.

"Sorry about Dent," Edward said, leaning back and crossing his legs, "He really had his heart set on killing you, but I just couldn't let it slide. Revenge killing … "

Edward curled his lip.

" … it's practically barbaric. But such sophistications are far above Dent. What else could you expect from a man who's beholden to scrap of metal? Now that's going to get him into serious trouble one day."

I made my move.

The corner of Edward's mouth twitched.

"What?" I asked.

"Oh, nothing," he said. "Just that the game's over, now."

"It's not." I said.

"It will be," Edward said, "in nine moves. Maybe eleven, if you're really good. But you're not."

"Perhaps," I said, "or perhaps you haven't considered all the possible outcomes. Perhaps a wrench will be thrown into the situation."

"Except," Edward said smugly, "that the rules of chess do not allow for wrenches. I suppose you could break the rules, and throw a wrench in there. But then we wouldn't be playing the same game, would we? In fact, we'd be playing without rules at all. A game of madness. And where's the fun in that?"

I thought about that as the next nine moves played themselves out.

"Nice knowing you, Edward." I said.

"Can't say the same," he said, looking off into the distance in a bored kind of way. "In a few days time, when I'll be walking the streets of Gotham once again, I'll probably have forgotten I ever met you."

* * *

Later that night, I lay alone in my cell, listening to the rain lashing the walls of the asylum. Sleep evaded me. I wasn't entirely sure why. But there seemed to be something … unsettling … in the air. Something out of place in the order of things. Something menacing.

Or perhaps it was only my imagination.

I wondered how Edward, Harvey, and Sionis' escape attempt would turn out. It seemed to me, personally, to be an insane idea. But I was in an asylum, so what the hell did I know? Part of me wanted them to make it out. Then I wouldn't have to deal with them anymore. Part of me wanted them to get caught, and soundly punished. It might do them good. They were all so sure themselves, and their plan. It was more than a little irritating.

After a while, I began to hear the rumbling of thunder.

And not too long after that, I become aware of a commotion outside my door. Several inmates were moving quickly down the hallway in the same direction. I passed out of my cell behind, and followed them at a distance. They were whispering rather hurriedly to one another.

Down the halls they went, taking a few twists and turns, and I went behind them. Until I turned one particular corner, and found myself faced with a rather unpleasant surprise.

"Hello there," said Dr. Crane, blinking behind his mask. "Are you looking for something?"

I pressed my lips together for a moment. I couldn't believe he was still wearing a bag over his head. But I also could not help but notice that he still had his satchel over his shoulder. So that was interesting.

Crane was still staring at me, clearly expecting a response.

"Just … seeing what the fuss was about," I said, nodding to the inmates moving down the hallway away from us. Crane turned his head momentarily to look at them.

"But of course," he said, turning back, "but you don't want to go that way."

"No?" I asked.

"No," he said. "The show's about to start. Wouldn't you like the best seats?"

"Depends on the show," I said. The skin around Crane's eyes crinkled slightly.

"Follow me," he said.

* * *

Crane led the way to a lonely little corridor on the third floor. It was lined with wooden benches but, funnily enough, it didn't really seem to go anywhere. The only thing at the end of it was a window. A tall, arching window, that looked out over the entranceway to the asylum.

The place was empty except for a single, silhouetted figure, standing in front of the window. In the darkness, it was difficult to see who it was. Only when Crane and I approached the figure gazing out the window, and she turned to face us, did I see that it was Doctor Something-or-other.

What a strange gathering this was turning out to be.

"Dr. Quinzel," said Crane, bowing his head slightly. I suppose that was the doc's real name.

"Jonathan," she said. Her eyes flicked to me, "and our contrarian friend."

"The good doctor has been helping me with my book," Crane said to me. "She had some very insightful comments on the similar psyches of vigilantes and criminals."

"How fascinating," I said, blandly. Quinzel looked back at the window.

"Yes," Crane said silkily, "I don't think we often appreciate how thin the line between heroism and villainy really is. Or what society perceives as heroic and vile. And, speaking of which ..."

Crane's masked head snapped towards me.

"... did those monsters ever get you?"

His eyes glittered in the dim light.

"There's no such thing as monsters," Quinzel said lightly, still looking out the window, "just things we don't understand yet."

The dull sound of the iron asylum gates being opened penetrated into the lonely corridor. It was followed by the screech of tires on road, and the flashing of headlights. Crane swung around to face the window again, his satchel pushed behind him.

I looked down at it.

And then, as quick as you like, I undid the strap and reached a hand inside. I recalled where Crane had placed the copy of my file, and I pulled it out. I checked the name, just to be sure, and then dropped it underneath the closest wooden bench. The whole thing took less than three seconds to pull of. And Crane was far too invested in whatever was happening outside to notice.

Only then did I glance out the window to the grounds below.

There were four black, armored trucks parked inside the wrought-iron gates. A semicircle of people were arrayed in front of the vehicles. They wore masks, boots, and urban camouflage. Each one of them held a rifle, and they were all pointing them at the solitary man standing between them and the asylum doors.

His hands were bound behind his back. Even so, and despite the bristling formation of law enforcers, his demeanor was not at all that of a prisoner, dragged kicking and screaming to the dungeons. With his back straight and his head high, face tilted upward at the imposing building, he had all the appearance of a king returning triumphantly to his castle.

"Knock knock," said Crane.

"Who's there?" said Quinzel.

A bolt of lightning stabbed across the sky, and in its flash, I saw …

A deathly white face.

Sickly green hair.

And blood red lips, grinning from ear to ear.

The Joker had arrived at Arkham.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Thank you, loyal reader, for enduring all the way to Chapter 10. And a very special thanks to those who have left reviews, I really appreciate them. This is going to be a much longer chapter than usual, and is meant to serve as a kind of season finale, if you will. Then I'm going to be taking a break from this story for a while. But, until then, I hope you enjoy this latest installment.**

* * *

I sat alone in my cell, frowning into the darkness.

They came about an hour after the Joker appeared. Edward was in the lead, thrusting the door open and marching inside. He was clearly upset. Frantic, you might say. Harvey and Sionis were behind him, but they didn't come in. They hovered in the hallway outside, talking quietly to one another.

"We've got problems, Chatterbox," Edward said through gritted teeth, pacing back and forth across my cell.

"Do we?" I asked.

Edward gave me a scorching look.

"I'm sure you know," he said, "that _he's_ been brought in?"

I nodded.

"And do you know what that means?"

I shook my head.

"Maximum. Security. That's what. It means more guards on the ground. It means helicopters in the air. And, most importantly, it means _patrol boats in the water_."

Edward stopped pacing and swung towards me.

"Do you see the issue now?"

He took my silence to mean that I did.

"And," Edward continued, "we have no idea how long this arrangement will last. Could be a few days. Could be a week. Could be a month. We just don't know."

"So wait it out," I said.

Edward raised his eyes heavenward.

"'Wait it out', he says. Oh, what brilliance. What cunning. Why did we not consider such a thing? Listen, my friend."

Edward took a step closer and raised his forefinger.

"In your pathetic little mind, I'm sure that makes perfect sense to you. But you have no idea the kinds of things I am involved with. I am the spider at the center of a web, the architect of a great machine, the sun in a solar system of my own making. The designs I have play in right now would drive a lesser man insane. And each piece, no matter how small or insignificant, must work as designed. Everything must go according to plan. And to ensure that that happens, I must be out of here. By. Next. Wednesday."

Edward had his face very close to mine by the end of his speech. For a moment, he stared irately at me. Then he backed off and started pacing again.

"So," he continued, "we seem to be at an impasse. We can't risk putting our plan into effect until the heavy security is lifted. And we don't know when that'll be. But here's the thing … this tight security, it's because of _him_ , you see. And if he's gone, then it goes with him. Can you tell where I'm headed with this?"

Edward stopped walking again and met my gaze.

"Basically … we're going to need you to kill the Joker."

* * *

I had dream once, _mate_ , that I was a passenger on a train. The train was fighting its way up the side of a snowy mountain. I heard the wheels grinding and screeching on the steel tracks, while the locomotive belched clouds of black smoke. And then, after hours and hours of struggle, the train simply fell off the mountain and hurtled into the abyss. I remember thinking that I had felt exactly the same when the train had fought its way up the mountain, as when it had fallen off. In both cases, there was nothing to do but wait.

"I'm not going to tell you don't have any choice in the matter," Edward said, "because you do: you can either face the Joker in a little while, and he'll likely kill you … or Dent will absolutely kill you right here and now. So what's it going to be?"

I had to think about that for a bit. But in the end I agreed to do what they asked. Edward visibly relaxed after I did.

"Alright," he said, clapping his hands together, "it's going to be very simple, and it'll be over before you know it, one way or another. And listen ..."

Edward put on what he probably intended to be a calming voice.

"... I know you've probably heard a lot of stories him. That he's evil incarnate. The Pale Man, and all that. But the truth is, he's the same as you and I. He eats, and sleeps, and dies. Like any other man."

"Hello-o-o," said a familiar voice. The masked head of Dr. Crane was peering into my cell.

"Ah, yes," Edward said, ushering Crane in, "we've enlisted the good doctor to help with this operation. He's a psychologist, you know, so he understands how to prod people into giving him what he wants. Very useful."

As Crane stepped fully inside the room, I saw that he was carrying a folded, white doctor's coat in one hand. The other hand was behind his back.

"Whenever someone like the Joker is brought in," Edward began, "one of the first thing's that's done is a psychiatric evaluation. Even the Joker has doctor-patient confidentiality, so you'll be alone in there. And it's scheduled to begin in …"

Edward glanced at Crane.

"Five minutes," Crane said, "to be administered by one Dr. Byron Meredith. Who, unfortunately, has just been detained."

His eyes gleamed merrily. Then he handed me the white coat and an identification card. I looked at the picture. Byron Meredith had a beard and glasses.

"This looks nothing like me," I said.

"Well, tell them you shaved and switched to contacts," Edward snapped, "and besides, one of the two guards stationed at the Joker's cell is one of ours. He knows to let you through."

"Why don't you get him to kill the Joker?" I asked.

"We tried," Edward said, "but he refused, point blank. We even threatened to off his family, but he wouldn't budge."

Edward let an exasperated sigh.

"Very frustrating. I'll have to deal him when this is all over."

I put on the white coat, and tried to cover my asylum clothes as best I could.

"So," Edward continued, "like I said, it's very simple. You get in there. You get up close to him, and …"

Crane showed me what was behind his back.

"What the hell is that?" Edward asked, sounding scandalized.

"Stole it from the kitchens," Crane said mischievously.

It was a meat cleaver.

"I suppose it'll have to do," Edward said, although he still eyed the rectangular knife with disgust. Crane, in the meantime, produced a folder from his satchel, with a paperclip on top. There was no name on the file.

He opened it, and I saw that the paperclip held down a number psychiatric forms. They were all blank.

"I don't have a lot on him," Crane said, as he slide the meat cleaver in the folder and closed it. "It's a shame you have to snuff out such a unique psyche. Perhaps you could take a few notes for me. If you can stomach it."

"I've dealt with psychopaths before," I said, taking the file.

"Not like this you haven't," Crane said, "not like him. To deal with the clown, you'd have to be mad, insane, psychotic, and batty all at the same time. And probably just a little bit funny, too."

* * *

"Identification," said one of the two guards stationed at the door. I saw on his uniform that his name was Francis. I handed him Byron Meredith's card. He held it up to his face and squinted at it, than at me.

"Hard to tell without the beard," he said.

"It's alright, Frank," the other guard said quickly. I saw that his name was Aiden. "I recognize him.

Aiden nodded at me as Frank handed the card back.

"Fifteen minutes," Frank said, "then we're pulling you out. No matter what."

"No matter what," Aiden repeated, eyeing me pointedly.

The door was opened, I stepped through, and immediately it was pulled shut behind me.

The room was small. A single, naked lightbulb hung above a table. An empty chair sat on the end closest to me. And I saw him on the other side. Head bowed, face obscured in shadow. Hands, bound behind the back of his chair. A mess of chains streamed from his legs and arms. Like rivers of steel, they flowed down to the floor, where they were clapped to large, metal rings. He was still dressed in his purple suit.

The only sound I heard was my own breath, as it flowed through my nostrils.

Until the Joker began to hum. Although I couldn't see his face, I heard the soft, cheerful notes trickling out of the darkness and seeping into my ears. I felt a chill run down my spine.

But I took a step forward. And then a second. And a third. My dull footfalls mingled with the quiet humming. As I approached, the Joker gave no sign that he saw or heard me. To my eyes, he remained perfectly still.

And then I was in front of the empty chair. My breaths were coming quicker now, as if I were struggling to find air. The file, and its treacherous contents, suddenly felt heavy in my hand. The urge to put it down seized hold of me, and it was this feeling, more than anything, that caused me to pull out the chair, sit down, and place the file in front of me.

My eyes traveled across the few feet of table that separated us, and I beheld the face of the Joker. Slowly, I took in his narrow, angular face, and its disturbing, uncanny paleness. The white lids were closed over his eyes. The nauseating strands of green hair had been untidily pushed back, out of his face. And his red lips, pressed together, were curved in a slight smile, as he hummed unconcernedly away.

 _Do it now_ , said an urgent voice in my head.

The shock of finding myself in a room with the Clown Prince had momentarily distracted me from what I was supposed to do.

 _He won't even see it coming,_ said the voice, _just get it over with._

That did make a lot of sense.

But this was not a time for sense.

Nonsense was the special of the day.

With a side order of hummus.

And it only cost three pence, a nickel, and all the sanity you can squeeze out of that skull of yours. Who's up for it? Anyone? How about you, sir? Yes, you, sitting in the back with the bloody meat cleaver. You don't want to miss the opportunity of a lifetime.

What do you think, _mate?_

I really wanted him to stop humming.

Reaching a hand forward, I placed it on the file. I felt the flat surface of the blade beneath, and I curled my fingers around the edge of the manila paper.

And then the humming stopped, the Joker's face tilted upward, and the white lids peeled back.

"Whatchya waiting for, sonny?" the Joker said, a slight quiver in his voice, as if on the verge of breaking into laughter. " _Let's rock_."

I didn't know what to say.

So I said nothing.

After a few seconds, the Joker leaned back in his chair, his green eyebrows furrowed. Then, his eyes shot wide open again.

"Oh, are you one of those 'silent psychiatrist' types? Sitting there as I pour my life out in front you, while you take notes? That the idea? Well buckle up, sonny, because you asked for it."

And then he went off on a ridiculous story about his terrible childhood, which contradicted itself in a hundred different places. But I wasn't really listening that hard. My thoughts were still with the cleaver in the folder. And occasionally I found myself staring at the top of the Joker's head. Or sometimes at the side of his neck.

"... and _then_ he pulled my eyeball _right_ _out_ of its socket."

The Joker closed his eyes, as if the memory was too painful. When he opened them, he looked at me, smiling again, both eyes perfectly intact.

"Did he now?" I asked. And I rather surprised myself with the steadiness of my voice.

The Joker's smile widened.

"He really did," he said, nodding slowly, "and let me tell you something friend-o. Sometimes ... I feel like my eye is _still_ there. It itches like _crazy_ sometimes, and I reach to up to scratch it … and it's gone."

The Joker leaned forward conspiratorially.

"Tell me, doctor, is that normal? Or … you don't think … I'm not going _insane_ , am I?"

He looked up at me with two, wide, concerned eyes. I stared back at his face, and I saw the red corners of his mouth twitching upward slightly. And I could tell he was enjoying his little joke, far more than he should have.

I leaned forward, too.

"Yes," I said, matching his tone, "you are insane. Because you're actually missing _both_ of your eyeballs"

The Joker's mouth opened, and slowly he ran his tongue over his lips.

"Oh. My." said the Joker, ponderously, "tell me please, doctor, what do I do? What's the cure?"

"Point a gun at your head and pull the trigger."

The Joker leaned back. He was still smiling, but there was a hint of some new emotion in his face. Something like curiosity.

"You're not my doctor," the Joker said with mock outrage, "are you?"

I did not answer.

"No ..." said the Joker slowly, his eyes narrowing, "... you're not." And now his voice was quiet. "What are you doing here, Mr. Party-Pooper?"

The question hung in the air between us.

Then I, too, leaned back in my chair. I was knew the clock was ticking. I knew I had to act soon. I raised my hand and placed it on top of the file.

The Joker's face suddenly split into a grin again, and he let out a chuckle.

"You know," he said, shoulders shaking slightly with laughter, "this could be a joke."

He raised his face upward, looking thoughtfully over my shoulder. I did not move, and kept my palm pressed against the file.

"A man has a very bad day," the Joker said, after a moment of concentrated silence, "he visits a therapist, and tells the doctor all about it. He says he's depressed, and nothing seems to cheer him up. The doctor says he knows something that might. The man says, "oh, tell me please, doctor, what is it?" And the doctor confesses that he's not actually a therapist. He's a con artist, and he was planning on stealing the man's money, but after hearing his patient's sad story, he's decided against it!"

The Joker snapped his head towards me, his mouth yawning wide, out issuing peel after peel of raucous laughter.

"That's not funny," I said, right into his laughing face.

"Isn't it?" the Joker replied, voice trembling mirthfully.

"Not really," I said, "I certainly wouldn't call it a joke. You're just saying things."

"Oh-ho," said the Joker, "look who's getting all precise with his words."

"Forgive me," I said, "but I think a joke out to describe something that's _funny_."

" _Everything_ is funny, sonny," he replied, "didn't you know?"

The Joker smiled at me. I frowned back at him.

And so we remained, until I saw the Joker eyes flick downward to my hand, which still rested on the file. And there was a moment when I felt that I needed to reach inside that folder, pull out the cleaver, and drive it into the Joker's skull. Even though I knew he was watching me, and I suspected that he suspected what I was there for. But I felt that if I didn't do it now, I never would.

I drew in a breath, my muscles tensed, and my fingers found the edge of the file …

And then suddenly the Joker pitched forward. Instinctively I pushed away from the table, and a second later the Joker's face slammed directly on top of the folder, right where my hand had been.

It was so shocking and strange, I had no idea what to do. I had gotten so used to the Joker bound hand and foot before me, I had almost forgotten how unhinged the man actually was. He seemed to have just snapped, right there in front of me.

And then I wondered if he had just been trying to get at my folder.

I had pushed my chair a good deal away from the table and although I knew I should get that cleaver as far away from him as possible, there was no way in hell I was going to put my hand anywhere near that grinning mouth.

Slowly, like a great beast rising from the earth, the Joker raised himself back up. I guess he must have cut himself or broken a tooth or something, because the top of the file was now stained with blood. I watched, warily, as the Joker turned his head over his shoulder and spat behind him.

And then that clownish face swung back toward me, smiling a bloody smile.

"Whatchya you got in there, sonny?" the Joker said slyly, his eyes briefly flicking back down to the table.

I felt my pulse quicken.

 _Bang. Bang. Bang._

I jumped. But then I realized that the rather alarming noise had only been the sound of one of the guards pounding on the door.

"Time's up," called a voice, "come out, or we're coming in to get you."

I stood up and, after a cautious glance in the Joker's direction, I snatched the file off the table and held it close. His eyes followed my movement. Without thinking, I turned and walked to the door.

"See ya, _doc-tor_!" I heard the Joker call out, as the guards opened the cell door and ushered me out.

"How'd it go?" asked Frank, mildly.

"Yes," said Aiden, much less mildly. "How _did_ it go?"

I did not answer. Instead, I walked away from them as quickly as possible. I looked over my shoulder once, and I saw Aiden staring after me with narrowed eyes. Then I turned the corner.

A little ways down this corridor, a wooden bench was pushed against the wall. I sank into it, and put the file next to me. Then I took a few deep and calming breaths.

I hadn't done it. That was problematic. Obviously.

I needed to figure out what to do next. My options were rather limited. I could try to find another opportunity to plant the cleaver in the Joker's face. That would be difficult. He would probably be locked under heavy security for the foreseeable future. And it was only a matter of time before Edward and company figured out the Joker was still alive. I supposed I could try to reason with them. But I seriously doubted they were going to have mercy on me, or grant me a second chance. Which left me with a third and final option: I could flee the asylum. I'd follow Edward's escape plan, before he realized what had happened. Of course, it meant a long swim through patrol boat infested waters. But, if I got caught, the worst thing they would do would be to send me back here.

I thought back to that moment, just a few days ago, when I had stood with Otis and looked out at the sprawling city across mercifully clear waters. I smiled wryly to myself. I supposed, with the benefit hindsight, I should have jumped when I had the chance.

I leaned back against the bench. In a little while, I would go down, down to the sewers. But for now, I would rest here, just for a moment.

Thinking about it, I supposed it didn't make a lot of difference whether I stayed or went. It was all the same, really, the asylum and the city. But at least in the latter there wouldn't be anyone out for my blood. And I wouldn't have to deal with as many crazy people. Probably not, anyway.

The sound of footsteps reached my ears. They were echoing from around the corner. I turned my head in that direction.

And the Joker walked into the hallway.

For a few heartbeats, my mind did not believe what my eyes were telling it. My mind knew that the Clown Prince of Crime was bound hand and foot in a dark room, vigilantly watched over by two burly guards. And yet, my eyes insisted that he was standing before me, unchained, unguarded, and grinning with all his unhinged madness.

And then this unreal figure before me raised a bloodstained hand, spreading long and slender fingers apart. Out tumbled something small and silver. It landed on the ground at my feet. It was a paperclip, bent horribly out of shape.

In sudden realization, my eyes traveled over to the file lying on the bench beside me. The paperclip that had rested on the top of that folder was no longer there. I looked back up at that pale face. It, too, was looking down at the file.

"Whatchya got in there?" the Joker repeated, his voice crackling with glee.

I leapt to my feet, but the Joker was fast, faster than I would have thought possible. In a single, blinding movement, his left arm shot forward and shoved me backwards. I tripped over my own feet and half-stumbled, half-fell to the ground. At the same time, I saw the Joker's right hand seize the folder and lift it upwards.

In the next instant he tore tore it open, and his eyes widened ecstatically, like a kid on Christmas. The Joker gripped what I knew to be the meat cleaver, and then carelessly flung the folder and the rest of its contents upwards. And while psychiatric evaluations rained down about him, the Joker raised the shining blade up to his exuberant eyes.

"Oh, sonny," he breathed, "you _shouldn't_ have."

With his eyes fixed on the blade, the Joker didn't notice me get back on my feet. And, fueled more by desperation than anything, I hurled my fist towards his face. With a dull _thwack_ the Joker's face snapped to the side, and he stumbled backwards.

But he didn't cry out, or even make a grunt of pain. And when the Joker's face turned back towards me, his mouth was open and he was shaking with silent laughter. The cleaver was still firmly gripped in his hand.

I fled.

Down the dark, twisting corridors of the asylum I ran. I turned this way and that, taking left turns and right turns, thrusting open doors and slamming them shut behind me. But no matter where I went, or how fast I ran, the Joker's shrieks of delight always echoed behind me.

And then I came to the doors of the rec room, and without properly considering whether it was prudent, I ducked inside.

There were about a dozen patients still scattered about. Some sitting, some standing, two of them playing ping pong. None of them even looked up when I entered, despite my frantic entrance and heavy breathing. I looked over my shoulder, but the double doors remained closed. Hurriedly, I took a few steps deeper into the room.

Suddenly, the sound of the public address system cut through the noises of the storm still raging outside.

"Attention," it said, in its cool, mechanical voice. "Red-Grade Patient - Zero - Eight - Zero - One - has escaped confinement. Patient is considered extremely dangerous. Do not approach. Return to your assigned rooms immediately. Thank you."

It shut off. I heard the ping pong ball bounce off the table and clatter across the floor. And then the room was completely silent, except for the rain lashing against the windows.

They were all looking past me, back towards the doors. I turned around. He was standing there, grinning, cleaver in hand. Gotham's nightmare.

"What's the matter?" the Joker said into the silence, "Have I killed the party?"

The blade flashed in the dim light and buried itself in the neck of the nearest patient. There was panic and screaming and running, as the Joker tore the cleaver free, spun about, and cut down a second patient.

Someone frantically thrust me out of the way and I stumbled. People were sprinting in all directions, because there was nowhere to go. There was only one way out, and the Joker stood in front of it.

But as a third patient fell dead before the Joker, I saw his eyes fasten upon me. In an instant he had crossed the distance between us. Desperately, I swung at him again, but he was ready this time. He ducked underneath my blow, came up behind me, and fastened his bone-white arm around my neck, the edge of the cleaver grazing my throat.

"Remember," the Joker whispered in my ear, "that little story I told you?"

He raised his free hand, his long and slender fingers curling like the tendrils of some ancient sea monster. Then with deliberate, agonizing slowness, he inched them closer to my right eye.

I fought and I struggled and I pushed and I strained. But nothing stopped those terrifying pale fingers from reaching my face. I shut my eyes tight, but the Joker pried the lids open and slid three pincer-like fingers around my eyeball. I would have screamed, but the Joker's arm was still locked tight at my throat.

"Shh," said the Joker. And then with a single, savage movement he tore my eye out of its socket.

I collapsed on the floor, engulfed in greater pain than I had ever felt in my life. I lay, staring up at the ceiling with my one remaining eye. The Joker crouched down in front of me, smiling. He raised his hand right in front of my face, and I saw my own eyeball, staring back at me.

"See?" the Joker said. "Isn't that funny?"

Then he raised the cleaver up, and prepared to bring it down on my head.

"ENOUGH." said a deep and booming voice.

The Joker paused, the blade still held above him. He looked up. I did, too, despite the pain. The room was empty now. Everyone else had gotten out while the Joker was preoccupied with me. Except for one patient, who stood a few feet away, right in front of the tall glass windows that stretched from the ceiling to the floor. It was Maxie Zeus, with his tangled beard, wild eyes, and hand outstretched towards the killer.

Slowly, the Joker rose to his full height, and met the man's eyes. Even through the agony I was in, I could tell that something about the patient gave the Joker pause. I think it was because there was no sign of fear, whatsoever, in Maxie's eyes.

"Stay thy hand," said Maxie Zeus, as lightning scored the sky and thunder roared in the distance, "and bloody not these halls. The High Lord commands thee to cease this slaughter. Heed these words, I tell thee, or thou shalt know the wrath of Zeus."

The Joker continued to stare at Maxie, who stared back, unflinchingly.

Then the Joker smiled.

It was crazy. All of it. An unarmed man standing before the most dangerous killer in Gotham, threatening to blow him to smithereens. And the craziest part was that the lunatic believed, absolutely, that he could do it. It was mad, insane, psychotic, batty.

And just a little bit funny.

The cleaver tumbled downward and clattered to the floor. A moment later, the Joker lowered himself down to the ground, spreading his hands apart in a supplicating manner.

"Forgive me, O Zeus," he said, in a tone half-sincere, half-mocking, "I knew not your commands. Please, spare my life, and no more will I walk astray."

Maxie said nothing, only looking down at the prostrating Joker with a mixture of satisfaction and disgust. I lay between, fighting to stay conscious. The three of us remained that way, until the doors were thrown open and asylum guards stormed in. They seized the Joker, dragged him to his feet, and began forcing him out of the rec room. He didn't struggle, though, just stared back at Maxie, grinning from ear to ear. Then the Joker began to snicker.

"Heh heh."

As they marched him through the doors, he was chuckling.

"Hee, hee, ha."

And the last thing I heard, before I fell unconscious from the pain, was the sound of the Joker's wild laughter, ringing through the asylum.

"HA HA HA HA HAAAAAAA!"

* * *

I was in the infirmary for quite some time. They did fix my eye up pretty good, though. Well, relatively good. It was still missing, and all. But they did give me a glass eye, free of charge. I guess this wasn't the first time a patient had gouged out someone's eyes.

Maxie came to visit me once, to inform me that our debt was settled. I asked him if there was anything he could do about my eye, being a god and all. But he shook his head.

"Thou," he said, "an ordinary mortal, crossed paths with the Lord of the Underworld. Didst thou expect to walk away unscathed?"

Frank, the guard, was also in the infirmary with me. After the Joker had picked the locks with the paperclip, he had beaten Frank unconscious. And he had strangled Aiden to death with his chains.

As for Edward and company, I learned that once they heard the warning announcement about Joker being loose in the asylum, they had fled, maximum security be damned. The patrol boats had caught Harvey and Sionis, and the former was immediately locked in solitary confinement. Edward remained at large.

The night that I was released from the infirmary, with my new glass eye firmly in my socket, I went straight to the lonely corridor on the third floor. The file that I had stolen from Crane was still under the bench where I had left it. I took it outside, to the grounds of the asylum.

I had not had a chance to go out on the grounds since I had been admitted. It was walled, grassy, area behind the asylum. It was fairly spacious, and patients were allowed to wander about it as they pleased. There was no one there now, because it was a cold night.

I stood there, for a moment, breathing in the brisk air. Then I opened the photocopied file, and read the things that were for me to know, and me alone. When I was finished, I ignited the lighter that Edward had given me, and touched the flame to the paper. After a few seconds, it caught fire. I dropped it in a metal trash can nearby. I watched it burn to ash, and then returned to the asylum.

Well, _mate,_ those are some of things that happened to me in Arkham. Not all of them, mind you. It is not a place that lends itself to serene days or quiet nights. And there is much left to say of those cheerless halls, and the strange people who walk them.


	11. Chapter 11

There is nothing quite so peculiarly human, in my opinion, as lying awake at night. Despite one's best efforts, one is not able to shut off one's mind at the drop of a hat. Instead, it often insists on humming and buzzing and denying rest. The experience is so widespread, I think there is a strong case to be made that to be human means you have developed a part of yourself that keeps you up at night.

You can imagine my surprise, then, to now find myself in the opposite position. Although for the last few nights I have been desperate to stay awake, my mind does not oblige. This leads me to the conclusion that the mind is eternally the enemy of the self, and whatever the self wishes the mind will always oppose. But tonight I was determined to win that fight. I would find some way of distracting myself, no matter how unsavory it seemed to me.

So hello again, _mate_.

The last time we spoke, if I recall correctly, was shortly after I lost my eye. It's still missing, if you were wondering. I'm not entirely sure what happened to it. I did go back to look for it, scouring every inch of that recreation room. Thought somebody might have kicked it under a table or into a corner. But I came up empty. I have a sneaking suspicion that he took it with him. If I ever see him again, I would very much like him to give it back to me.

They gave me a new one, of course. A prosthetic, made of glass or something. I don't like it. It doesn't fit as well as my old one. But the doctors insist that I wear it. Something about "keeping up appearances". As if we were expecting visitors. I suppose you can cut them some slack, though. The staff are more than a little flustered at the moment. That tends to happen when there are murders in your workplace.

I sat up. This wasn't working very well and I still had hours to go. So I stood and paced back and forth three times across my cell. That got old pretty quickly. I went to the sink and looked into the mirror.

Why didn't eyes grow back?

Perhaps I would go to the library and look that up. Nobody was ever there at this hour. Or I could go to the recreation room and watch television. Although there were probably a bunch of weirdos there now. Perhaps I would go out to -

A crack of pure, white light suddenly split the mirror in front of me in half, bisecting my reflection.

 _Damn it_ , I thought.

A second, larger crack, opened up. This one ran off the mirror and onto the wall. I stepped back slowly from the sink as more and more cracks, some small and some large, spiderwebbed about the walls, the ceiling and the floor.

 _Damn it all to hell_.

And then everything around me shattered into white light.

Despite my best efforts I must have fallen asleep. I should have guessed because my both my eyes were, in fact, there. I still dreamed with both eyes. Lately, though, I only had the one dream. A nightmare, really, and it always began with the cracks of white light. And the place I found myself in now was either very small or very large. It was difficult to tell, as the only thing in front of my face was the whiteness. And while I could walk about in it, the paleness continuously pressed upon me. Yet the suffocating white light seemed to stretch on forever. It made one feel peculiarly claustrophobic and agoraphobic at the same time.

He was there, too. He was always there, with his purple suit and his sickening green hair. When I looked at him, he turned to look at me. His face was split into a grin, his head and shoulders shaking with wild laughter. But I couldn't hear it. I could never hear anything in this place. It swallowed everything into itself. Even now, I could feel it pressing on me and him, threatening to take us both away.

But _he_ didn't seem to mind. He liked it here. Or at least he thought of it as something like his home. I was only visiting.

I started awake, back in my dark little cell. I sat up, annoyed that I had lost the battle again. Making a snap decision I decided I would go out and walk about outside. That ought to help me stay in the world of the living.

I vainly struggled to force my prosthetic eye into a more comfortable position and thought about my dreams of the white light. I knew they were nightmares, even though they didn't always seem like it. I hadn't had a nightmare in ages. And then I met the Joker.

I left my cell shortly after that and wandered down the long, empty asylum halls. I met no one on my way to the grounds. At one point I did hear the soft notes of a piano seeping down from somewhere. I stopped to listen to the music for a while. It was a slow, haunting melody, and I rather liked it.

Eventually, I stepped out onto the enclosed grounds behind the asylum and took a breath of the crisp, autumn air. I stared out across the harbor at the twinkling lights of the remote city. I sat down on the porch, leaned back on the palms of my hands, and looked up at the stars. The few that were visible, anyway. There was no moon tonight, unfortunately. That would have been interesting to look at.

It was certainly very quiet. I wasn't usually one to appreciate the serenity of a dark, sacred night, but I could savor a still moment when one came along. Especially since recent times had been so … chaotic. My thoughts turned briefly towards the Joker, isolated in his maximum security cell. What did a man like that think about when he was alone?

"Nice night?"

The voice came out of the dark. I dropped my eye down to where it had come from, and saw someone leaning against the wall that enclosed the grounds. He was half-obscured in shadow, but I could tell he was wearing street clothes, not asylum garb. He had a leather jacket and, because this was Gotham, a mask covered his face. It was a dull, reddish color.

"Could be better," I said.

"Heh. 'Course it could. You're stuck in an asylum. Everyone thinks you're crazy, but you're not. Am I right?"

Judging by his clothes and his comment, I was guessing this stranger was not, in fact, a patient. And I doubted he was a doctor either. Which naturally led me to my next point.

"In my opinion," I said, "no one needs an asylum more than people who come to it voluntarily, for no good reason. That reeks of a fractured psyche drowning in cognitive dissonance."

I heard a low chuckle emanating from the darkness.

"You," the stranger began, "have got one hell of a mouth. Did you know that? But you're dead wrong. I've come to your crappy little home-away-from-home for a very good reason."

"I'm sure you believe that."

"In fact," the stranger continued, "it is the same reason why you are here, whittling away the night. And why you came here three nights ago. And two nights before that."

The stranger straightened and took a few steps forward out of the shadows. The lamps that illuminated the grounds shed more light on his clothes and the red mask that encased in his entire head. And to my surprise, I actually recognized him. Somewhat. I knew I'd seen him on the news a couple of times, and that he had one of those funny vigilante names. I knew it began with _Red_ , but for the life of me I couldn't remember the rest of it.

"Well Red," I said, just going with that, "I can't say I appreciate being spied on."

"Ah," Red replied, "but you haven't heard what I've come to say. See, I came to talk to you about the Joker."

Oh. So that's what this about.

"I'm afraid you've got the wrong guy."

"No." He said flatly. "I know all about what happened. What the Joker did. How he ripped out your eye."

Behind his mask I saw his own two eyes flick to my glass one.

"And I actually know how you feel. When it comes to the Joker's cruelty, you might even say I'm the expert."

"Is that so?" I said, "What did he do to you that was so bad? Because unless I've forgotten how to count, you've still got one eyeball over me.

"Even if I told you," Red said, "you wouldn't believe me."

I thought about asking him to try me, but I didn't really care.

"Well, Red," I said, "thanks for stopping by. I hope I never see you again."

I stood and turned towards the asylum doors.

"Wait," Red said, his voice short and harsh, "I'm not finished."

"Weren't you?" I said, sighing and facing him again.

"I have a proposition for you."

"Let me guess, you want to go halfsies on killing the Joker?"

"Oh," Red said, stepping closer and speaking quicker, "don't be so presumptuous. _I_ would be doing the killing. Eventually. You would be more of my inside man. Making sure everything's in position and going according to plan. And you get the pleasure of witnessing his demise. Minimal risk, maximum reward. And -"

"And blah blah blah," I said, ignoring the sudden anger that flashed in Red's eyes when I cut him off, "you know, I've actually heard this one before, and it's not very funny. So good night, Red, and goodbye."

I turned back towards the asylum. But I only made it a few steps before my face was slammed into the wall. Pain exploded in my head as Red's surprisingly strong hand gripped the back of my skull kept it plastered against the rough stone. I felt a droplet of blood seep out of a cut above my left eye and roll down my cheek. Unceremoniously, Red peeled my face off the wall, turned me about, and shoved me back up against it. His eyes were locked onto my single one and they were blazing like the fires of hell.

"Listen, punk," Red said, his tone icy, "that indifferent, sarcastic show you put on might fly with your little asylum friends, but not with me. Got it?"

As if to underscore his point, Red suddenly had a gun in his right hand, and he pressed the cold metal of the barrel against my temple.

"Now, I don't know what you did to end up here and I don't need to. Because no one in Arkham is innocent. I could blow your head off right now and I'd sleep like a baby tonight. So listen up and think carefully."

Red pressed the gun harder into my skull.

"What the hell is the matter with you? You scared, or something? Frightened of what the clown will do to you if you mess up? Is that why you don't want to help me take him out? Because he pulled your _eye_ right out of your head. What did that make you feel?"

I said nothing, and Red stared at me for a very long time.

"Guess it's gonna be the hard way," Red said softly, almost to himself. "I want you to fix this moment in your mind, your life completely in my hands. Every breath you take from this moment on is a gift from me to you. Remember that when I come calling."

And with that, Red brutally thrust me to the ground before melting away into the darkness.

Back in my cell, I sat on the floor with my back against the wall and spun my eye across the floor. I liked the sound it made. A dull, rumbling sort of sound, punctuated by a sharp crack when it bounced a wall. That was the kind of thing that passed for entertainment in this place. And it also helped one to stay awake. So for the rest of the night I skidded my glass eye across the floor, and tried not to think of white light.


	12. Chapter 12

It never ceases to amaze me how one's mind can be thrust from relative calm into the jaws of humanity's collective horror, simply by uttering two words:

Group therapy.

"Thank you all for coming," Dr. Quinzel began, as if we had any choice in the matter. There were about ten of us, our chairs arranged in a circle, while outside rain lashed the windows and wind buffeted the trees. We were in a room in the asylum that, other than meetings like this, served no purpose.

"We are gathered here today to discuss the incident involving Patient Eight-Zero-One." Quinzel continued, looking at each patient in turn, seeming to speak directly to him or her for a few moments, and then moving on. "I am sure we have all been affected deeply by it. Four people died. One was brutally beaten. And another was maimed."

Several of the patients glanced at me. Quinzel seemed to make it a point not to do so.

"Such an incident is, understandably, difficult to process. Many of you likely suffered psychological damage. Perhaps all."

"Further." Crane interjected.

Quinzel blinked. Some of the patients who had previously had their attention fixed on her turned their heads to look at the man who had spoken. He was sitting on the far side of the circle, directly opposite the doc. And since the circle was really more of an oval, one could consider either him or Quinzel to be at the head of it, so to speak. Crane was certainly acting like it was him. With his legs crossed and his clipboard in hand, he was bending over his notes, apparently deeply immersed in them. And he still had that bag covering his head.

"Excuse me, Jonathan?" Quinzel's tone was clipped.

"Further." Crane repeated, still not looking up. "You ought to have said: "Many of you likely suffered further psychological damage."

One of the other patients snickered. He was a fair-haired kid with a smug little expression on his face. I hadn't noticed him before. Quinzel caught his eye and he stopped immediately. Then she continued as if nothing had happened.

"Despite the difficulty in confronting these types of incidents, it is imperative that we do just that. We ought to grapple with these things, and see if we are able to extract something of worth from it. And that, of course, is why we are here. I think it would be beneficial if each of us were to speak about the incident, and what it means to us. So who would like to begin?"

Nobody said anything. Some of them didn't seem to be paying attention at all. Others looked bored. Still others were eyeing Quinzel, either with mild interest, cold observance, or outright hostility.

"How about you two?" the Doctor said, nodding to a young man and a young woman sitting a few seats away from me. I hadn't gotten a good view of them before, but now that I did, I noticed they looked pretty similar. I thought they might have been twins. They had both been staring across the circle at Sionis, who was also present. He didn't seem to care, though, as his usual blank face was fixated on the opposite wall. When Quinzel spoke to the two, they immediately swiveled their gazes toward her.

"Irwin and Irene, isn't it?" Quinzel continued, "How did the incident affect you? Especially since you were both present in the recreation room when it happened, weren't you?"

The two looked at one another, then at Quinzel, and then nodded in unison.

"Yes," Irwin said, "yes we were -"

"-and it was frightening, obviously-" Irene said.

"-when he appeared in the doorway with his meat cleaver-"

"-and he murdered those sad people and -"

"-well…" Irwin trailed off, and they both looked sidelong at me.

"It's a very horrible thing, what happened to you." Irwin continued.

"We're very sorry." Irene concluded.

They were a bit weird, I thought. But Quinzel seemed pleased with what they said, and she turned her attention to another patient, the fair-haired kid who had snickered.

"And you, Lonnie?" she said. "How were you affected on a personal level?"

Lonnie shrugged.

"What do you want me to say? That it was an atrocity? That we were touched by malevolence, or something? And that it all made me feel so very bad inside?"

"Is that how you feel about it?"

"I feel," Lonnie said, a little pandering, "that they pulled a rubber band too tight and were surprised when it snapped."

"You don't feel patient Eight-Zero-One was responsible for his actions?"

"He did what he thought he had to do," Lonnie replied.

Quinzel surveyed him, unblinking, although he still did not meet her gaze. Eventually, she scribbled something in her notes.

"And how about you?" Quinzel said, looking up at me, "Do you feel he 'did what he thought he had to do?'"

That drew more interest than I would have thought. Even Crane looked up from his clipboard. Lonnie kept his eyes fixed on his hands, though.

"I'm afraid," I said, "that I don't understand the statement. The phrasing is confusing at best, and the only meaning I can derive from it is so broad and vague as to be irrelevant. Quite frankly, it seems to me that the person who constructed that sentence and spat it out into the world desperately wanted everyone to think him clever, while also terrified out of his mind that they would realize he was actually very vacant and ignorant."

One of the patients chuckled while the others, those that were paying attention anyway, looked from Lonnie to me and back again. I also noticed that Quinzel was smiling slightly. Then she looked at Lonnie.

"Well Lonnie, what did you mean by that statement?"

"Only," Lonnie said, his tone hardening, "that people don't do things without reasons. And before I could see no other reason why the Joker would rip this guy's eye out. However ..."

Lonnie raised a finger as if suddenly struck by a brilliant thought.

"... I think I am starting to get why he did it."

"You don't say?" Quinzel asked, looking back at me. "Perhaps -"

"Lonnie," Crane suddenly trilled, interrupting her, "what did you mean when you said: _t_ _hey pulled a rubber band too tight_? Who, pray tell, are _they_? Were you referring to our half-blind friend here?"

"Let's-" Quinzel began, but she was interrupted by Lonnie's loud scoffing.

"Of course not," the kid said. " _They_ run things. They don't fall through the cracks and get forgotten." Lonnie looked directly at me.

"Hmm," Crane said, making a flourishing note, "you don't say? Could you be referring to dear Dr. Q. and her ilk? Are they to blame for the incident?"

"Jonathan," Quinzel said shortly, "let's try not to get off track. But since you were kind enough to volunteer, do you mind telling us all how you were affected?"

"Oh," Crane said, waving a hand, "I was _piqued_ , of course. Speaking of which, Doctor, where is the Joker now? What are you doing to him?"

"We," Quinzel said coldly, "are not _doing_ anything to him. He is being kept in solitary confinement. I am working with him and, other than me, he has no contact with the outside world."

"How's that going?" Crane asked, his bagged head tilting to the side, "the … ah ... _working with him_ , I mean."

"That is none of your business, Jonathan."

"Well, I think it is. If you people refuse to do your job properly, then it's up to me to get things done."

"Maybe you should let him run things for a day, doc." Lonnie said cheekily. "I'd like to know what he'd do."

Crane's head snapped towards Lonnie as he clicked his pen.

"Oh, I'd be happy to give you some counseling. Any time you like."

"Nah, man," Lonnie said, "save it for the people who are actually crazy."

He raised his thumbs and wiggled them, one pointing towards me and one towards Sionis. Quinzel shot Lonnie a positively wicked glare and he stopped. Sionis, who had previously done nothing but stare blankly at the opposite wall, slowly turned his face towards Lonnie. Crane hurriedly scribbled something.

"I understand," Quinzel said, "that everyone might be a little one edge, given recent events. However, let's try to -"

"Doctor Quinzel," Sionis said, his voice amiable. His face, no longer blank, was relaxed and easygoing, and he smiled winningly. "There's no need for that. I understand completely. Lonnie here, bless his heart, was only having some fun. I hold nothing against him."

"There's a weight off my chest," Lonnie muttered sarcastically, while Sionis continued to smile at him.

"Roman." Quinzel bit out warningly. Sionis looked at her and spread his hands.

"What is it, Doctor? I'm only trying to impress upon the youth that his actions, however puerile and simple-minded, caused me no discomfort. Quite frankly, I'm more concerned about what they say about young Lonnie here, and the infantile state of his mind."

"Hey, Black Mask," Lonnie said, studying his fingernails, "didn't they catch you making a mad swim for Gotham the night Joker escaped?"

Sionis' smiled froze on his face.

"They did, actually," Crane said in a stage whisper.

The relaxed look disappeared from Sionis' face, but it did not return to his usual blank expression. Instead, Sionis' features became cold and hard. His face seemed now to be carved from stone and his eyes were deep, hollow, and dark. Believe me, _mate,_ he looked like death itself. Even Lonnie appeared taken aback by the sudden, terrible change.

And more than that I, and everyone else in the room, sensed something building inside Sionis. A great anger was rising in him, ready to be loosed on the object of his wrath. The tempest outside was nothing compared to the maelstrom of rage brewing inside the man as his deathly sockets fixed on Lonnie.

"Roman." Quinzel said again. Her voice was quieter this time, but there was something else lurking behind that name. Something darker. Earlier she had used it as a warning. Now it was a threat.

Apparently that got through to Sionis. He opened his mouth and slowly inhaled. His lids slid shut over his hollow eyes and, when they opened, the stone-cold expression was gone, as quickly as it had come. His face blank once more, he turned to look expectantly at Quinzel.

"Thank you, Roman," she said. "Now, as I was saying ..."

Crane started writing again. Lonnie, apparently trying to show that he was unfazed by what had just happened, leaned back and stared lazily up at the ceiling. The other patients, myself included, turned our attention back to the doc while still looking at Sionis out of the corner of our eyes. Or eye, in my case.

"... let us try to remember that we are all in this together. We all want the same thing: healthy minds. And, like it or not, we need one another to do that. Because, if left alone, the mind devours itself. We are each indispensable to the other, because we all keep us sane. So either we learn to live together, or we learn to live in a padded cell."

She looked about the room, but nobody seemed to have anything to say to that.

"So, in that spirit of living together, let's all consider the incident."

Quinzel made the very strange decision to ask everyone to sum up their feelings about a quadruple murder with a single word. But I guess the others didn't consider that as strange as I did, because Lonnie went right ahead and kicked things off.

"Inevitable," he said.

"Tragic," Irwin and Irene said.

"Interesting," Crane said

"Irrelevant," Sionis said.

"Excruciating," I said.

"Incredible," Quinzel said, when everyone was finished, "isn't it? That all of you can have such varied reactions to the same event. Like the white light that breaks into many colors. It was very good of us to collect them all together like this. But what are we to do with this host of interpretations?"

She looked around as if expecting someone to speak up with the answer. When of course no one did, Quinzel leaned back and abruptly closed her notes.

"Did you know there was a theater in the asylum?"

Most of the patients said nothing, but some of them shook their heads. I was among the latter. Sionis, sitting opposite me, turned his blank face towards me. I couldn't tell you why. I easily could have shot him a meaningful look if I had wanted to.

"There is." Quinzel continued. "On the fifth floor. To my knowledge, it's been abandoned since the days of Amadeus Arkham. That's a shame, don't you think?"

Outside there was a flash of lightning and a crack of thunder.

"We," Quinzel said, a spark of mischief igniting in her eyes, "are going to stage a play."

There was dead silence. Even Crane's pen was still. I knew everybody was thinking exactly the same thing, so I said it.

"Why?"

I thought the question might irritate Quinzel, but if anything, she seemed enthused by it.

"It's the perfect to response to the incident. What I am envisioning is an experience that will encapsulate what has happened in an understandable, visual way. Think of it as both a metaphor and an experiment. And it will be a celebration besides. Citizens of Gotham will be invited to attend, and we can begin bringing together the asylum and the city"

Quinzel's eyes were shining as she spoke. "It will be the story of a journey, from neon-lit streets all the way out to the far reaches of the cosmos, a search for meaning in a cruel universe. It will be about war, peace, sanity, and what people call madness. All of it leading to the Grand Finale."

That all sounded insane to me, but mentally I shrugged, as it was no skin off my nose.

"I have picked all of you," Quinzel continued, "to help put on this production."

I rolled my eye.

" _Well_ ," Crane said, punctuating the word. He sat forward, uncrossed his legs, and clicked his pen closed. "I have to say, Dr. Q., that I'm surprised at you. I never expected you'd make such a strange pronouncement. In fact, I rather thought you would live out the rest of your dies idly prodding at the unique minds that presented themselves to you everyday, before finally succumbing to the monotony of clinical life and offing yourself in an undignified manner. But this …" He _tap-tap-tapped_ his pen against his clipboard. "... this is fabulous."


	13. Chapter 13

I was sitting in the recreation room, at the same table where Edward and I used to play chess. As he was gone, I was forced to play with myself. It wasn't nearly as engaging as playing with someone else, but it was something to do.

As I spun the board around to make my move for the white pieces, I idly wondered how Edward was getting along. As he had managed to pull off an escape while the asylum was under maximum security, I thought he was owed at least a little credit. But I hardly missed him. In fact, I was hoping he evaded capture indefinitely so I wouldn't have to see him again.

I made a move that I thought was pretty good, then swung to the other side and thought about how to counter it. It was tough though, and the more I puzzled over it, I couldn't help but feel a little angry about it. I knew it was only anger at myself, but I couldn't help it. It was that particular kind of anger one feels when -

"Over there," I heard someone say on the other side of the room, "sitting at the chessboard."

I looked up, and saw from across the room Lonnie the Kid, following the pointing hand of the patient who had spoken. I met his eyes, and that gave me a pretty good idea of what he wanted.

I abruptly stood up and went towards the door. Luckily I was closer, so I managed to slip out without too much commotion. Once outside I practically ran down the deserted corridor, not even looking behind me. I had little interest in trading blows with yet another punk, although presumably this one did not have any weapons on him. I thought about trying to find Sionis and sicing him on Lonnie. There was no chance he hadn't seen me, but I had a pretty good head start, and I weaved my way through the asylum at random.

I had only made it down a few corridors before I heard the music. The same, somber melody from the night I had met Red. It was coming from somewhere up above. I found the nearest flight of stairs and began climbing. This led me up one of the strange towers that adorned the asylum. All the while the haunting notes filtered down to me, growing louder as I ascended. And as I got closer, I began to make out someone singing along with music.

" _... tangled brine-stems scored the sky … like strings of broken lyres …"_

Eventually, I found myself in front of a door behind, behind which I could clearly hear the piano and song. Knowing that I was fully to blame if I met anyone - or anything - unsavory on the other side, I opened the door.

The room was small, square, and dusty. There was a lot of furniture, mostly chairs, shoved into the grimy corners, and a few dark paintings hanging crookedly on the walls. And, of course, there was a grand piano in the center. The door creaked loudly when I opened it, and the two people, one playing and one singing, immediately stopped. In unison they looked over their shoulders, and I saw that it was Irwin and Irene from group therapy.

We stared at each other for almost five seconds.

"Did you write that?" I asked.

"No," Irwin said after a moment.

"But we did adapt it," Irene said, "from a poem."

"Oh." I said.

And then there was silence, again, for about seven seconds.

"What are you doing here?" Irwin demanded finally, his voice suspicious.

"I was going to ask you that." I said.

"We're making music," Irene said. The two caught each other's eyes and said together: "Obviously."

"Yes," I said, "I can see that. Why?"

"Seemed to be something worth doing." Irene said.

"And it helps to pass the time." Irwin said.

"Until what?"

The two gave me a strange look, like they weren't sure if I was joking or not.

"Until they let us out."

And then I was the one who wasn't sure if they were joking.

"And you think that's going to happen … like, anytime soon?"

"Dr. Meredith says we're close, even if -"

"- he has said that before, but -"

"- we figure he wouldn't say it -"

"- if we weren't making progress."

Well, that confirmed a suspicion had I always had: that optimism was more work than it was worth.

"Besides," Irwin continued, "we were never -"

"- supposed to be here."

"I've never heard that one before," I said, and the two smiled.

"Yes, I imagine everyone says that, but -"

"- for us it's actually true."

"I bet," I said, "what's the deal with you two, anyway? Are you related? Or are you freaks? Or both?"

"Twins," they said.

"So how'd you both get committed at the same time? Did you kill someone together or something?"

The two exchanged a look.

"Like we said, we're -"

"- not supposed to be here." I finished quickly, cutting off Irwin before he could finish. They looked shocked that I had interrupted their little duet. "Yeah, you said. Good luck with getting out 'the right way.'"

I made like I was heading back towards the door, but stopped short of it. I stood there for a moment like I was considering something, knowing all the while they were watching me. Then I turned back to face them.

"One more thing." I said, and they both stared at me with the same wary expression.

"You," I said, pointing at Irwin but looking at Irene. After a few moments, I reversed my index finger and my gaze. "You were there, in the room, weren't you?"

They exchanged a glance, but said nothing.

"And you saw him rip out my eye, didn't you?"

Still they were silent.

"Didn't you?" I repeated, louder, and finally they nodded. "And you said it was horrible, and that you were very sorry. But if you were there long enough to see it happen …" I spread my hands apart. "... I'm a little surprised you didn't do anything to stop him. Or even try."

"We..." Irene said

"...ah…" Irwin said.

"...perhaps…"

"...I think…"

"...well…"

"...um…"

It was quite something to see two people stumble over their words together, but they trailed off in the end. Until Irwin said, quietly: "We were the last to leave."

"Oh," I said, "that it makes it better."

I knew I had pushed it too far with that final jab, because their eyes suddenly flashed from guilt to anger. Yeah, _mate_ , I knew it was a little unfair to blame them for my situation. Any sane person who saw the Joker would think about nothing except getting the hell out of the way. But I had lost an eye and they had both gotten out of that room scot-free. So forgive me if I was a little disgruntled.

However, we were spared from further argument when I suddenly heard the door behind me opening. I turned to see Lonnie standing there, taking in the scene before him with a smirk.

"Well, well," he said, "if it isn't One-Eye and the Disturbing Duo ... what are you three doing here, so out-of-the-way?"

Why did everyone strut around this place like they owned it? I mean, I knew they were mostly all criminals, and a good number were completely out of their minds. But that was no excuse, I thought, for oozing arrogance everywhere one went. And if there was one thing in this world that irritated me, it was presumption.

"Nothing at all," I said lightly. "Why don't you run along, Loonie?"

Lonnie let out an exaggerated sigh, raising his eyes to heaven. Then he dropped his gaze past my shoulder, presumably to Irwin and Irene.

"You two," he said, "what were you doing?"

"Playing the piano," Irwin said.

"And singing," Irene said.

"And conversing," I said. "Those aren't crimes, are they?"

"Depends," Lonnie said, not looking at me "on what you're conversing about. Hell, for all I know you three are cooking up a scheme. Sabotage. Assassination. Maybe a little _coupe d'etat_?"

He said the last word with a flourish, like we were supposed to be impressed with his vocabulary or something.

"If we were," I said, "it would hardly be your business."

"Maybe not," Lonnie said, "but I could tell on you, you know. Rat you out to the whitecoats. Who knows what they'd do to you. They're very paranoid right now about anything going wrong. You know they still haven't figured out how the Joker escaped?"

"You don't say?"

"Yeah, I do say," Lonnie said. All this time he had been looking from Irwin to Irene, avoiding making eye contact with me entirely. "And what I'm _really_ saying is, I could make things very difficult for you three, even if you weren't up to anything at all. So how about you just left me in on the secret?"

"There actually isn't-" Irene said.

"- a secret." Irwin said. "We really were -"

"- just practicing a song."

"Just for the hell of it?" Lonnie said, clearly not believing them.

"Yes."

"And what were you talking about?"

"Well -"

"- the play, of course."

"What it'll be like -"

"- whether it's a good idea -"

"- and what Dr. Quinzel hopes to accomplish."

I wasn't terribly surprised that they had made all that up. They had seemed very reluctant to talk about the night I lost my eye. Lonnie's expression, meanwhile, had changed from suspicion to amusement.

"Ah," he said, "the play. Of course. Well, what do you think of it?"

"I think it's a terrible idea," I said. "Nothing excites these people like playing dress-up, so it's pretty much a guaranteed disaster."

Lonnie actually met my eye then, although the look he gave me was one of utter contempt. It occurred to me that he was probably one of those people who wore a funny costume.

"It seems to us -" Irwin said.

"- to be in bad taste." Irene said.

"It hardly seems appropriate -"

"- to commemorate murders with a theatrical celebration -"

"- or _experiment_ -"

"- or _metaphor -"_

" - or whatever she called it."

"Oh," Lonnie said, "it's definitely in bad taste. And it probably will be a disaster. But the doc is willing to risk all that. And I think she might even be counting on it."

"What makes you say that?" I asked.

"Come on," he said, "she must know it's crazy. But Dr. Q. doesn't care, I think, because she wants to do something … bold. Something exceptional. Something people will talk about for a long time. And if you ask me, she's on the right track."

"Really?" I said sardonically.

"History forgets the moderates," was all Lonnie said, as if that settled the matter. I glanced back at Irwin and Irene, who were shrugging at each other. I guess they were both fine with being forgotten by history. And probably by present company, too.

"Anyway," Lonnie said, "speaking of the devil, the doc wants to see you. That's why I'm looking for you."

"Well," I said, more than a little irritated with him at the moment. "You certainly took your time getting to the point."

"I know," Lonnie said, "And I'm gonna let her know you were a real pain to find, too."

Then, smiling smugly, Lonnie pushed open the door and motioned for me to go through. And as we descended the tower together, the piano began again, and I head a snatch of verse:

"... _his crypt the cloudy canopy … the wind his death-lament._ "


	14. Chapter 14

Lonnie fell into step on my blind side, and I was pretty sure he did it on purpose. I mentally prepared myself to make a witty retort to his inevitable insult. But Lonnie was uncharacteristically silent as he walked alongside me to Quinzel's office. After a few minutes, it actually started to feel a little strange.

"So …" I said, "... what's this all about?"

"The doc," Lonnie said idly, "is probably going to fill you in on the play."

I awkwardly glanced at him with my left eye and saw that he was smirking at me in a knowing way.

"What is this play?" I asked.

"I dunno the details," Lonnie said, "I haven't read the script. But I have read the book they're basing it on."

That surprised me. I didn't know Lonnie knew how to read. I was going to tell him that, but in a remarkable feat of self-control, I restrained myself. My curiosity was piqued.

"It's based on a book?"

"Yeah. _All Things Bright_."

"Is it good?"

"There's a lot of pretty words in it, and it really wants you to think its profound. But you can tell the author is just making it up as he - or she - goes along."

"You don't know?"

"It's published anonymously. That's how pretentious this thing is."

I would have asked more, but we suddenly found ourselves in front of Quinzel's office.

"Her majesty awaits," Lonnie said snidely, giving a little bow and gesturing towards the door. I walked past him, knocked on the door, and was told to enter. Dr. Quinzel sat behind her desk, writing. There were two other chairs in the office, set opposite each other, for therapy sessions. Crane was sitting in one of them. Well, _lying_ in the chair actually, a leg draped over one of its arms and his head resting against the other. His eyes were closed.

Quinzel, without looking up, invited me to pull up a chair. I grabbed the empty chair and dragged it across the floor to the opposite side of the doctor's desk. I glanced at Crane, but he wasn't doing anything, and Quinzel didn't seem to care to explain his presence.

I sat back and crossed my legs. Quinzel continued to write away, and from what I could see, she was making notes on a script. Made sense. A book was also spread open on the desk. Presumably the book in question.

"Well," Quinzel said, making a final note and looking up, "I imagine you have a lot of questions."

"Why would you think that?" I asked.

"Oh," the doc said, "if you don't, that's just fine. It's just that many patients have raised … _concerns_ … about my announcement last session."

"Really?" I asked in a tone of mild surprise.

"Yes." Quinzel said, surveying me over her glasses. "Not you, though?"

I shrugged, and glanced casually out the one tiny little window in the office.

"How are you sleeping?" Quinzel asked suddenly.

"Great." I said, keeping my eye fixed on the window. "Why do you ask?"

That was a mistake. I'd said it too quickly. And I could tell from Quinzel's voice that she hadn't missed that.

"No particular reason." she said. "Only you did endure a rather traumatic experience. It's hardly out of the question that you might be suffering symptoms of PTSD."

"I'm not." I said. The doc was silent for a moment, and I since I was still looking out the window, I couldn't tell what she might be thinking.

"I know talking about this kind of thing might be uncomfortable, but you can tell me about anything. That is my job, you know."

I looked back at the doc, but said nothing.

"Think about it, then." Quinzel said, "And know that my door is always open."

The doc scribbled something on a notepad in front of her. I tried to read it upside down, but she was too quick and covered it up and out of sight.

"Anyway," Quinzel continued, "to the matter at hand." She reached into a drawer, pulled out a stack of papers stapled together, and handed it to me. On the first page was written: _ALL THINGS BRIGHT: A Play in Two Acts_. And beneath that: _Adapted by Drs. Harleen Quinzel and Jonathan Crane_.

"Have it read by next week," Quinzel said. "That's when we begin practice. We'll probably make some changes here and there as we go along, but for now this is the script."

I glanced at Crane, who was still in his chair with his eyes closed.

"He's writing it?" I asked.

"He's _helping_ to write it." Quinzel said. "He liked the idea very much. So that's his contribution to the project."

"And what's mine?" I asked, idly thumbing the pages.

"Well," Quinzel said slowly, "that's what we're here to talk about."

Something in her voice made me look up. It was oddly guarded.

"You're not in the play, _per se_. You're part is more of a … demonstration … which will take place when the drama has concluded."

Not a great start, I thought.

"And what's that going to be?"

"Have you heard the saying," Quinzel said abruptly, leaning back, "that a grudge is a heavy thing to carry?"

"Uh … no."

"Do you agree with that?"

"Well ..."

"We feel," Quinzel continued, "that there is a tremendous amount of ill will in this city. So much conflict. Some nights the streets of Gotham are a veritable war zone. And then to have that strife spill out here, into the asylum, which ought to be a place of rest and healing. That's a terrible thing, wouldn't you agree?"

I didn't answer, because I didn't think the doc would care what I said.

"At a certain point, someone has to do something. Someone has to make a principled stand. Someone has to show Gotham that we can all come together and solve this problem. We can heal the scars. We can forgive and forget. But somebody has to make that crucial first move."

"I don't see …" I began.

"Here's the thing," Quinzel said, leaning forward and folding her hands, "that first move has to be made by someone whose life has been directly affected by this conflict. Now you might be very upset, understandably, about what happened to you. But have you ever thought of it as an _opportunity_?"

"Could you cut to the chase?" I said, fixing her steadily with my eye. She met my gaze unblinkingly. I had an inkling of what she wanted, but I sure didn't want to listen to a long, meandering speech to get the full picture.

"So direct." Quinzel said quietly. "People are not machines, you know."

I said nothing.

"Alright." The doc said. "This is the idea: as a sign of goodwill and forgiveness, Patient Eight-Zero-One will be brought on stage at the end of the play, and you and he will shake hands."

I don't know.

I don't really have the words to describe how I felt when she said that. To say I was shocked and appalled didn't exactly cover it, but I guess it was something like that.

"You are out of your mind."

"Please don't use that kind of language here," Quinzel said. But her eyes were shining with … something. I couldn't tell what it was. Irritation? Curiosity? Amusement?"

"I will not do that." I said.

"I know," Quinzel said, "that this might be a difficult thing for you. That's entirely understandable. But, please, consider the meaning behind it. Remember what I said about this being a metaphor?"

Well, I also remembered that she had called it an experiment. At that point something made me glance at Crane and, with a start, I saw that his eyes were open and staring at me from behind his mask.

"Think of that image burned into people's minds, and what it signifies. An end to vengeance. A visual reminder of the common humanity shared between _every_ person. Isn't that what all the songs are about? Peace and love and forgiveness? Everybody's in favor of forgiveness."

"Until they actually have to do it," I muttered.

"Well, this is your chance to be the better man, isn't it? You get to stand on a pedestal and do something noble, for once, with an auditorium full of people admiring your courage and kindness."

"How the hell," I said, "is anyone going to agree to this? What if he escapes?"

"Obviously," Quinzel said, "we've considered that. We're not idiots."

"You're doing a really good impression."

"Patient Eight-Zero-One will be properly secured. He will be fitted with a gag as well, so he won't even be able to speak. And if he tries anything, the guards will not hesitate to shoot him dead. But he won't."

"How do you know?"

"Because I've talked extensively with him about it and he rather likes the idea."

"You don't think he just wants a chance to escape?"

"I can tell when he's sincere. So you have nothing to worry about."

"I will not do it." I insisted.

Quinzel fixed me with a long, cold stare. Then she said my name. And she used the same tone of voice when she had called Sionis by his first name in group therapy: quiet and threatening. I realized there was something the doc was implying with that tone of voice. Some kind of dire warning. _Do what I want, or I will_ … what? Kill you? Probably not. Quinzel didn't seem capable of murder to me. So what the hell was she implying?

I was reminded, funnily enough, of the night Edward had come barging into my cell and told me he would have me killed if I didn't try to assassinate the Joker. Once again, someone was forcing me into contact with him. Except this time, it wasn't to kill the Joker, it was make to make nice with him.

"You don't have to like it," Quinzel said in a tone that told me this was the end of the matter, "but you do have to do it."

* * *

The play was very surreal, very abstract, and very bad. The plot followed a protagonist, referred to only as the Hunter, who wore a mask of tragedy. The Hunter began the play walking morosely through a city at night, down neon streets and dark alleys. At one point a character dressed as a jester and wearing a mask of comedy leapt out of the darkness and began chasing the Hunter, who fled all across the world. Somehow (this part was not explained) the Hunter ended up in space. Then followed a series of unfortunate events, the Hunter wandering across the universe and discovering strange places, like the House of Frozen Days and the Jackrabbit Kingdom. Eventually, the Hunter reached the very edge of the universe, which was represented simply by a white backdrop. There, the jester appeared again and the two engaged in a dance number together. Finally, they departed the stage together and the curtain was drawn.

I wouldn't have expected anything less from a play written by two psychotherapists. And one week later I got a front row seat to the first practice, which was atrocious. None of the patients were trained in acting, and most of them didn't want to be there. But Quinzel had been clever to keep the spoken lines to a minimum. The story was mostly told through its visuals. Still, it was bad, and I could tell the doc was irritated, even if she did her best to hide it.

I slipped out before the practice was finished. I had seen enough. Besides, it was weird being back in the theater after everything I had experienced there. As I walked out into the corridor I glanced at the door, a little farther down, that was locked shut with a chain. A small bit of mud was spreading out from under the door. Quinzel had seemed concerned by that locked wing of the asylum when we had all met up outside the theater before practice. "We're going to have to do something about that," she had said, thoughtfully.

When I walked back into my cell I found an unpleasant surprise. There was a note on my bed which read _Remember_. I turned it over and saw the words _Every Breath._

I wondered if Red knew about my scheduled "demonstration" at the end of the play. I didn't know how he could have found out. But I also didn't know how he could have snuck a note into my cell. And of course I knew it _had_ been Red.

I ripped the note into pieces. To hell with them all. Quinzel and Red and Joker could play their games all they wanted, but I would have none of it. I had already paid an eye, and as far as I was concerned, that ought to buy me a lifetime of inactivity. At the very least.

Come on _, mate_. We're going to find somewhere to hide.


	15. Chapter 15

There was a morgue in the asylum. I have no idea why. Well, I knew what it was for. And I suppose whoever had the bright idea to built it had incredible foresight. It was certainly coming in use now. And it was unlocked.

I stood in the doorway and surveyed the interior. It was dark and dingy, the walls lined with body lockers, and there were three tables on a raised platform in the middle. They were empty, as I assumed would be all the lockers. Nobody had died _that_ recently.

I began pacing around the perimeter of the morgue. Perhaps this would do for the time being. So long as nobody died before the night of the play, I assumed this place would remain empty. I doubted anyone would think to look for me here. After all, who in their right mind would spend their days living in a morgue?

Food and water might be a problem. I supposed I could sneak out at night and steal some sustenance from the kitchens. Not ideal, but it was better than the alternative.

I stopped as I walked along the back wall, my eye catching something strange. My earlier supposition had been wrong. The morgue was not empty. Down in the corner, along the very bottom row of lockers, they were four nameplates.

Lisa Barrister. Jack Daley. Thomas Fabian. Aiden Tanner.

Oh.

I stared at the last name in particular. Aiden Tanner. That had been the guard the Joker had strangled. Which meant these other three were the ones whose heads he'd split open.

That was weird. Not the fact that he'd killed them. I meant the fact that their bodies were all still here. I didn't know that much about morgue protocol, but surely they wouldn't have kept them on ice this long after they died? Didn't the families want to have funerals, or something?

Maybe the bodies weren't actually there. Maybe they'd just forgotten to take the nameplates off. I didn't want to check, though. Instead, I stared at each of the names in turn, considering.

"Well, well," I said quietly. "You four have put me in something of a predicament. What are you still doing here, I wonder? And will anyone be along to collect you?"

They didn't answer. I supposed they'd earned the right to be rude. Not to mention the right to be undisturbed.

"Forgive my intrusion," I said, crouching down besides their names. "But I do hope you rest in peace. Lisa, Jack, and Tommy too."

Aiden had been working for Edward. He could rot in hell.

"No more humming and buzzing for you, my friends," I whispered to them. "The war is over ... hardly the way you wanted, I imagine, but over nonetheless. No more restless nights, or white walls, or 'How does that make you feel?' And who'd have thought a knife to the brain would have been the quickest way to do it?"

"That's an awful nice thing to say."

I closed my eyelids in frustration. Apparently there was no such thing as a private conversation in Arkham. Slowly, I stood up and turned around to face the man in the doorway.

He was a doctor. Or at least I assumed he was, since he was wearing a white coat. But this would hardly have been the first time a patient had impersonated a doctor. Hell, I had done it.

I noticed he was holding a white key card in his right hand. Apparently he noticed that I had noticed it, because he casually slipped his hands into the pockets of his coat.

"Can I help you?" I asked sarcastically.

He didn't answer my question. Instead, I watched his eyes travel from my face down to the lockers with the nameplates.

"Do you that often?" he asked, "Talk to people that can't talk back?"

I'm not sure what he was implying, _mate_.

"What do you want?" I asked.

"I thought I heard a voice," he said, "and I was intrigued. People don't often come to my morgue."

"Your morgue?"

"Forgive me," he said crossing the distance between us and extending his hand, the key card now gone. "I'm Jeremiah Arkham."

I have to admit that I was momentarily taken aback.

But I recovered quickly.

"Oh," I said, ignoring his hand, "so _you're_ the monster."

Jeremiah tilted his head to the side and lowered his hand.

"The monster?" he repeated, his voice more inquisitive than anything.

"Like the Minotaur," I said, "at the center of the labyrinth."

"Ah … do you consider me to be the source of all your problems, then?"

"Your asylum. Your fault." I said. "Same difference."

"Hmm," Jeremiah intoned thoughtfully, "I never thought of it like that." He stared off into a corner, pondering. Then he glanced briefly down at the four cold lockers again.

"Did you know them?"

I shook my head.

"But you saw them die?"

"Three of them."

"Right before he …?"

"Yes."

Jeremiah shook his head.

"A real shame." he said. "And if only … if only we knew how it happened. Then, perhaps, it would never happen again."

He fixed me with a piercing glare.

"There's nothing else you can tell us, is there? I know you said you were just walking the halls when he rounded the corner with his weapon … but is there any detail you can remember that might tell us how he escaped?"

"Afraid not." I said.

"A pity. The other guard that was watching him, Francis, is our only possible witness. But the Joker beat him so violently that, I'm sorry to say, he became comatose. Let's hope for a swift recovery, and maybe he can shed some light on what happened."

"Let's hope." I said.

"Anyway," Jeremiah said, the piercing look disappearing from his eyes, "why don't you tell me about how the incident made you feel?"

I blinked.

"Absolutely not." I said. "You might run this place, Mr. Arkham, but you sure as hell ain't my therapist."

"Interesting." Jeremiah said, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Tell me then, how _are_ things between you and Dr. Quinzel? If I might be so bold."

"Do you know about her play?"

"Yes."

"All of it? Even the bit with the Joker?"

"Of course. She presented her idea to me weeks ago, and I approved it."

"See?" I said snidely, "you are the monster. Are you crazy too?"

Jeremiah stepped over to one of the tables, reaching a hand out of his pocket. He drew it across the metallic surface, as if he was checking for dust. He raised his fingers to his face and studied them for a moment. Then Jeremiah returned his hand to his pocket and leaned against the morgue slab.

"Do you know what good therapists do?" He asked me.

"Put on stupid plays?"

"A good therapist," Jeremiah continued, "listens. He listens as the patient explains the problem in his or her own words. He does not tell his patients what is wrong with them and what to do about it. He listens to what they say. He asks questions that he doesn't know the answer to. And he lets the patients solve their own problems."

"That makes you seem kind of unnecessary."

"In a way," Jeremiah said, "I consider all of the people under this roof my charges. The patients, the orderlies, the guards, and the doctors. The buck stops with me. So it's my job to help them all help themselves."

"What's your point?"

"My point is that one day Dr. Quinzel knocked on my door, and there was a light in her eyes that I had never seen before. And she explained to me all about her idea for a play, and what it would be, and what it would mean. I listened. And I decided to help her solve her own problems."

"What I'm hearing you say," I said, "is that you're going to let this obvious disaster happen, knowing full well that someone might get killed."

"People," Jeremiah said, "are endlessly fascinating. And you only know what people are really like in strenuous circumstances. I intend to let my charges follow the road of their choice right to the bloody end. Then they'll know who they are, and I will have done my job."

He suddenly pushed himself off the slab and took a step towards me.

"Take yourself, for instance. I cannot help but notice that you're down here, in my morgue, instead of attending Dr. Quinzel's theater practice … running away from our problems, are we?"

"Damn right I am." I said. "That bother you?'

"That's the point. It's not what I think that matters. And I won't dissuade you from your road, either. I will not tell Dr. Quinzel where you are, if she asks. You are free to act as you see fit."

"That so?" I said. Then I stepped closer to him, reaching into my pocket and pulling out cigarette lighter Edward had given me. I brought it with me when I left my cell because it was the closest thing I had to a weapon. Now I stepped right up to Jeremiah, ignited the little dancing flame, and slowly began moving it closer to his face.

"You'll really let me follow my 'road of choice right to the bloody end'? No matter what?"

I held the flame an infinitesimally short distance away from his skin. Jeremiah did not flinch, or even blink, as he coldly held my gaze.

"Yes." He said, firm and quiet.

I searched his eyes. Then I stepped back and flipped the light close.

"Why are the bodies still here?" I asked.

If he was surprised by my threatening to burn him, or my abrupt change of subject, he didn't show it. I guess he was used to dealing with crazy people.

"Would you like to hear a ghost story?" Jeremiah asked quietly.

"What?"

"A ghost story. Do you believe in ghosts?"

"Not particularly."

Jeremiah nodded, as if he had suspected as much.

"Three years ago a body washed up on our shores. Not an unusual occurrence, this close to the city. It was dressed in a strange, almost ornamental costume of cloth and metal. Also not an unusual occurrence. As was customary, the body was taken to this very morgue. And we discovered the man in question had been shot, stabbed, beaten, and his lungs were full of water. About as dead as anyone could be. But …"

Jeremiah glanced over at one of the metallic slabs.

"... but then he wasn't. The doctor performing the autopsy was skewered with his own scalpel. And we found the dead man wandering through the asylum, leaving a bloody trail behind him. The guards ordered him to stop. He didn't. They shot him in the head, splattering his brains across the white walls."

"Sounds like a happy ending."

Jeremiah tilted his head again, like he hadn't considered that.

"It could be. It could be a very happy ending. Because he's still alive, even today. He's locked away, and has been for these last three years. And we study him. And we think. And we experiment."

He glanced again at the four cold lockers.

"And we try to replicate."

* * *

The morgue was compromised. I didn't believe Jeremiah when he said he wouldn't tell Quinzel where I was. And, for what it was worth, I didn't believe his ghost story either. If something like that had happened, I seriously doubted he would be telling one random patient about it. Sure, no one would believe me if I snitched, but still.

After Jeremiah left, I examined the key card I had pickpocketed from him while I had held the flame close to his face. It was a white, plastic rectangle and was almost entirely blank. Written across one edge, in small black letters, were the words: Icarus Wing.

"Well, well," I said tapping the card against my hand. "What could that be about?"


	16. Chapter 16

Finding the Icarus Wing was not difficult. In fact, it was just a little way down the hall from the morgue. I imagine Jeremiah Arkham had just left it, and that was why he happened to overhear me speaking with the dead.

It didn't look like much. The door was so unassuming, it could have been the entrance to a janitor's closet. A plain, wooden door with a brass knob, and at eye level there was a small plaque that read "Icarus Wing".

I tried the doorknob, it opened, and I entered. The corridor now before me was also very ordinary. Besides the one I had just come through, there were five other doors, two along each wall and one at the far end. The last one was like the first, plain and wooden. But the other four were a little more interesting. They looked like they were made of steel, a very protective sort of look. The four doors were all marked with letters (A through D), and beside each was a key card scanner and a speaker.

I approached Door A and examined the small speaker box. It was equipped with two buttons, one to listen and one to speak. I pressed the former. The speaker crackled into life and then, after a few moments, I faintly made out a voice. It was very quiet, and I pressed my ear to the speaker. The occupant was muttering something over and over. It had the rhythm of a poem, or a prayer, but I could only make out a few words. Well, I thought while moving to the next cell, not that one then.

The first thing I heard behind Door B was an odd kind of scraping, ripping noise. It was accompanied by a snuffling noise, like an animal. It was like … some kind of beast, gnawing at a bone. And then I heard something even stranger: a leathery, flapping noise, like the beating of wings. Definitely not that one.

Behind Door C I heard only one thing: the soft, melodic humming of a woman. Absolutely not that one. I'd seen enough horror movies to know that.

Which left only Door D. And when I pressed the button by the speaker, I heard nothing. So without giving it much more thought, I raised Jeremiah's key card to the scanner. With an electronic click, the steady little red light turned to green, and I entered.

Only to find myself in a small antechamber of sorts. There was another door before me, exactly like the one I had just entered. Several hooks ran across the wall to my left, on which hung hooded coats. Unsurprisingly, they were white. The presence of the coats was explained by a sign fixed to the right wall. It warned of cold temperatures beyond the second door, and said that the coats were required for entry.

Well, if it was required, then I supposed there was nothing to be done. I pulled on one of the coats and raised the hood over my head.

Even with my coat pulled about me, I was surprised by the frigid air that greeted me beyond the second door. It was like one of those large freezer rooms where they stored cow carcasses. And it looked a bit like one, too, although, there was no meat in it. The walls were windowless and bare, except for a door and several vents. The only furniture in the room were a folding table and two chairs, set in the middle of the floor. I crossed the room to the other door and, since there was no scanner, I merely turned the handle and entered.

It was darker in there, but still just as cold. When my eye adjusted I saw - with a little surprise - a reasonably well-furnished bedroom. A bed, a desk, a dresser, a sink, a toilet, and even a painting hanging on one of the walls, though I couldn't make out what it was.

The bed was also occupied. Just the dark shape of a man, his chest rising and falling, his breath heavy and even. That explained why I hadn't heard anything from the speaker. Although it did not explain the cold. The man did not seem to be bothered by it. He wasn't even wearing a coat. And it kind of looked like he lived here.

Ah, well. It was not a mystery I would solve today. Because this was clearly not the room for me to hide in. Perhaps I could find an unoccupied cell - preferably one that was distinguishable from a freezer - somewhere else. I turned back toward the door.

And that was when my foot slammed into the little bedside table. I hadn't seen the damn thing because of the dark, but I sure as hell felt it. Pain shot through my toe and I stumbled, lost my balance and collapsed on the ground. I heard a crash and a shatter as something that had been perched on the table hit the floor.

The heavy breathing stopped, and as I raised myself to a sitting position, I saw the dark silhouette of the man rising from the bed. I held my breath and stayed very still, hoping he wouldn't see me and just go back to sleep.

But I had no such luck. The man stayed where he was, very still. I couldn't see his face, so I had no idea what he was doing. Both us just remained as we were, surrounded in darkness, as still and quiet as statues. Until …

"I see you."

The voice was flat and unemotional. He seemed to be simply stating a fact, disinterestedly.

"There are no prizes, I'm afraid," I said, my voice shaking more than I would have liked. Stupid freezer.

"What did you do?" He asked, voice still devoid of emotion.

"What did _you_ do?" I shot back. "Who puts a bedside table right by the door?"

He was silent, but saw I him lean forward, reaching a hand toward the table. He felt about the surface for a while, and I guessed he discovered that it was empty.

"You broke my lamp. Will you bring me a new one?"

"Oh sure," I said, "next time I pop down to the city."

"Thank you," he said. I guess he missed the sarcasm in my voice. Unless he was being sarcastic right back and _I_ was missing it in his flat voice. "Why are you here?"

"I … came to check on you. They sent me. Thought you might need help."

"Help." He repeated.

"Yes .. hadn't heard anything in awhile … wanted to make sure you weren't dead. But now I see you're sleeping. Or you were. So that solves that."

I stood up.

"Nice to meet you," I said, taking a step toward the door.

"Wait."

The man also stood to his feet. He was a lot taller than I was, and his dark form loomed over me. I reached a shaking hand towards the door.

"Who are you?"

"I could ask you the same thing."

"My name is Victor. And if you didn't know that, then you're not supposed to be here."

I pushed the door open and ran into the light of the outer room. I only made it halfway to the anteroom chamber when Victor caught me. His hands clamped like vices onto my shoulders, stopping me in my tracks. Then he threw me into the folding table.

Next thing I knew, I was sprawled on the cold floor. Victor was standing tall above me, and now I could see him clearly in the light. Let me tell you, _mate_ , that was something. His skin was extremely pale, almost bluish. I assumed that was because he'd been living in a freezer for … however long. And yet he hadn't turned into an icicle. In fact, he hardly seemed bothered by the cold at all, despite the fact that his head and arms were bare. What a freak.

Not that I was really in a position to judge him.

"No one knows you're here." Victor stated.

"Actually," I said, wincing at the scrapes and bruises I'd gained in my fall. "There's actually quite a lot of people looking for me right now." I reached a hand onto the nearest chair and began pulling myself up, but Victor kicked it out of the way and I collapsed onto the floor again.

"I don't believe you."

I raised myself onto my hands and knees.

"That's too bad," I said, "because it's the truth."

"Prove it."

"I will," I said, slowly rising to my feet. When Victor made no move to stop me, I continued until I stood face to face with him. Metaphorically.

"I will prove it," I said, again, "if you give me a minute to catch my breath."

"No." Victor said, and he took a threatening step forward. I took a few hurried steps backward.

"Alright, fine," I snapped. "Here's the deal: I'm actually a patient, a Red-Grade one in fact, and I broke out of my cell last night. The whole asylum is on lockdown, they're all running around looking for me. You must have heard the sirens."

"No."

"Well, they'll probably be down here any minute. So how about you just let me go on my merry way and continue with my foolhardy escape attempt."

Victor said nothing, his face as hard and as inscrutable as a rock. But he had stopped moving towards me.

"Red-Grade." He repeated.

"That's right," I said, "Believe me, man, I'm the worst of the worst. Like a serial-killer's nightmare. You've heard of the Joker, right? Well, you're looking at the guy who killed him. I planted a meat cleaver right between his eyes."

"You ..." Victor said, and for the first time I detected a trace of emotion in his voice: contempt. "... are a terrible liar."

He came for me again, and I leapt for the nearest point of escape. Which happened to be Victor's bedroom. I made it in the nick of time, shutting the door in Victor's face. Outside, he slammed a single fist against it, making the whole thing shudder.

Breathing heavily and still shivering, I pushed my back against the door. There was no lock, so I hoped I would be able to keep the thing shut all by my lonesome. But Victor didn't seem to be interested in forcing his way in. I could hear nothing coming from the other side now.

It was still dark in the bedroom and since I had broken Victor's lamp, I guessed it would remain that way. So I reached a hand into my pocket and pulled out my lighter. With shaking hands, I managed to open it and ignite the flame. It gave a little light and, more importantly, allowed me to warm my hands.

I had really gotten myself into a predicament. I didn't know what Victor was doing out there, but I assumed he wouldn't want me staying in his room for long. And I also assumed that he could force his way in, eventually, especially considering he didn't seem to be affected by the cold at all. Which meant I had very little time, maybe only seconds, to think of a plan.

In the dim light I had produced, I glanced about, seeing if there was anything I could use. My eye fell upon the small bedside table. Its surface was empty, except for a small, square photograph, unframed. I picked it up and studied it in the light of the flame.

It was a picture of a woman sitting on a bench. From what I could see of the background, the picture had been taken in winter. That was strange. Not exactly prime picture weather, I thought. And the woman wasn't smiling, either. In fact, she looked rather sad, her eyes dark and keen. That was stranger still. People didn't usually keep the sad pictures.

And yet, it seemed to me that there was a comforting quality to the picture, despite its strangeness and its sadness. It was oddly honest.

"Victor," I called out, "are you there?"

No reply.

"Victor, if you do not let me out of here unharmed, I will tear this photograph of yours to shreds."

That got his attention. I heard footsteps, and I felt him lean close to the door.

"You will not."

"Oh, I will. You let me walk out of here and then I slide the picture back under the door."

"No." Victor said. "Hand it to me, and I will let you go."

"As if." I said. "You will bash my brains in the second I hand it over."

"If you destroy that photograph, then yes, nothing will stop me from doing exactly that to you."

Unfortunately, I could see he had a point. But I still didn't believe he would let me walk out once I handed over his picture.

"Alright," I said, "I'm opening the door a crack."

I did just that, and soon Victor's pale, outstretched hand appeared, prepared to receive his keepsake. Instead, I shoved my little flame close to his palm. Victor let out a scream of pain and anguish, the likes of which I had never heard before, as he jerked his hand quickly out of sight. Capitalizing on my advantage I pushed as hard as I could against the door and it slammed into Victor, knocking him back.

Then I was out and running towards the antechamber again, letting the picture fall from my hand and fumbling in my coat for the key card. Just as I pulled it free, Victor caught up with me again. This time, he lashed out viciously with his fist, striking me in the back of the head and knocking me down.

I hit the floor again, both the lighter and the card slipping from my grasp. And I could only watch in dismay as momentum sent the key card spinning across the floor until it disappeared underneath the antechamber door.

Fantastic. Now I was locked in here with a murderous freak.

 _No_ , said a small, defiant voice in my head, _he's locked in here with you_.

I rolled over and began to rise, but then Victor kicked me in the face and laid me flat on my back.

The small, defiant voice in my head was a moron.

Then Victor's cold, corpse-like hands closed around my throat, cutting off my breath. I struggled against him, but he was tall and strong, and remained as unmoved by my flailing as he if were made of stone. Dispassionately, he began to choke the life out of me.

Until my searching hand found my fallen lighter, lit the flame and raised it close to his pale skin. Instantly, he let go of my throat, reeling back from the fire like a vampire from a crucifix.

Holding the light up before me like a talisman, I got to my feet. I advanced and Victor retreated, his face still emotionless, but his eyes were fixed on the flame like his life depended on it.

"Very well." He said. "Freeze to death."

Then he snatched his fallen photograph up, backed slowly into his bedroom, and slammed the door.


	17. Chapter 17

"What do you see?"

"A white paper with a lot black blotches."

"Very funny. Now please tell me what you really see."

"What if that is what I really see?"

"It's not."

"How would you know? In fact, even if I told you I saw a butterfly, how would you know I'm telling the truth? What do you see?"

"Do you see a butterfly?"

"If that's the right answer, then yes."

"There are no right answers."

"Are there wrong answers?"

"Absolutely. If you told me you saw a person lying in a pool of blood with their head split open, then yes, that would be a wrong answer. You don't see that, do you?"

"No."

Quinzel lowered the Rorschach card and made a note. I sat back in my chair and crossed my legs, trying to look entirely unconcerned. Casually, I cast my eyes at the painting behind Quinzel. The good doctor remained in absorbed in her own work for a little while, then looked up.

"How are things?"

"I can't imagine how they could be better."

"It's not a bad thing to temper your expectations. But now that you've been here for a little while … had time to settle in, as it were … what do you think of Arkham?"

"Like I said, I can't imagine how things could be better. Considering what you have to work with."

"No thoughts on how we could improve, then?"

"I didn't say that."

"Do you have thoughts?"

"Yes, here's one: you could improve things."

"If I'm understanding you correctly, you believe the staff of Arkham could improve things, but at the same time you can't imagine how it could be better."

"That's correct."

"That's contradictory."

"Yeah, that sounds crazy, doesn't it? Maybe I should see a doctor."

"Forgive me for being blunt, but you don't seem to have adjusted very well to the asylum."

"What gave you that idea?"

"In your time here you have sustained numerous beatings, broken fingers, and you lost an eye."

"I didn't lose an eye. Somebody took it. And besides, it's not like any of that stuff was my fault."

"Wasn't it? These kind of things don't happen to everybody, you know. Perhaps you haven't yet considered to what extent the blame rests on you. "

A crack of pure, white light split open Quinzel's face, running diagonally from right to left. Involuntarily, I jerked back, shocked by the suddenness of it. Then I understood.

"Oh, hell." I said.

Quinzel continued to stare at me, smiling slightly, the two halves of her face misaligned. Behind her, I saw more cracks opening up in the walls, spreading out across the room. The doctor seemed thoroughly unconcerned by what was happening.

"How can the prisoner reach outside except by thrusting through the walls?" Quinzel said, before everything shattered into white light.

I jerked awake and sat up, my foot kicking against something small. I was still in the freezer, and it was still cold as hell. Looking about, I saw that I had knocked over my lighter. Before I'd fallen asleep I'd stood up before me to warm my hands. Now it lay on its side, closed and extinguished. I wondered how long I'd been asleep. Well, it was good that I was awake. If I was awake then I was alive.

I closed my fingers around the cold metal of the lighter and tried to ignite it, but my hands were shaking so badly that I couldn't manage it. Frustration flared within me, anger at myself, and at Victor, and my predicament. I threw the lighter across the room.

That was when I noticed the bodies. There were three of them. A woman and two men. The woman sat against the left wall, head bowed, blood pouring from a wound in her skull, her hair already matted with the stuff. One of the men was slumped in a chair behind the folding table, his head resting on his shoulder, and his throat cut open. The other man lay crumpled by the right wall, a pool of blood from his head slowly spreading across the floor.

They sure as hell hadn't been there when I fell asleep.

Hurriedly, I got to my feet. I couldn't tear my gaze away from the grisly scene. It was like a grotesque locked room riddle. How did three newly killed people end up in an inaccessible freezer? And what did the one living person have to do with it?

Without entirely thinking it through, I took a step toward the body of the man who lay by the right wall. Then another. And another. His pool of blood met me halfway, and I carefully stepped around it. When I reached his corpse, I crouched down beside it. He was completely still, eyes closed, no breath. I would have seen it in the cold air. He really did seem to be dead. Except for the fact that I heard something issuing, I thought, from his open mouth. A faint sound … I couldn't make it out. I bent my ear closer to his face. And I heard a strange, soft, buzzing kind of noise. Then the eyes of the corpse shot open, and he looked at me.

Pulse pounding in my ears, I stepped back, right into the pool of blood. But I didn't care. I kept backing up, all the while watching in horror as the man with the split skull sat up. His cold, lifeless eyes fixed on me all the while, he raised a hand to the wall, smearing blood across it, and bracing himself against it as he rose.

Across the room, the woman raised her head and looked at me. With blood still running down her face, she too began struggled to her feet.

The man in the chair raised both his hands and gripped the edge of the table. He pulled himself on top of its flat surface and, one hand at a time, began crawling across it. He, too, turned his face up and looked at me.

"What the hell are you?" I muttered, softly.

"Don't you know us?" The woman said, in a voice that was sticky and sweet. The fact that she, a walking corpse, was speaking at all sent a cold shudder of fear straight through me. "It's Lisa, Jack, and Tommy too."

"You killed us," said the man - Tommy - standing by the right wall, his hand still resting against it. His voice was low and guttural.

"No, I didn't." I said quietly.

"Your blade. Your fault." Tommy said. "Same difference."

" _You killed us_ ," Lisa said in a singsong voice. " _But we're not dead._ "

Jack, lying flat on his stomach on the table, his chin resting against the palms of his hand, smiled at me, while blood fell from his throat and splattered on the floor.

Lisa and Tommy began advancing towards me, both of them shuffling and stumbling, struggling to remain upright, but keeping their eyes locked on me all the while. I stepped back until I felt the cold metal of the steel door behind me.

"We're not dead," Lisa said, "because we'll always be with you."

"What do they say about loved ones?" Tommy added. "'You may be gone from my sight, but you are never gone from my heart.' Are we your loved ones?"

"Oh, but if you loved us, you wouldn't have murdered us, would you?" Lisa said, the innocent tone of her voice contrasting with her grisly appearance. "I suppose … we must be your hated ones."

Jack opened his mouth and made loud, grating, repetitive noise. I think he was trying to laugh. Blood bubbled out of his lips and spilled down his chin. Then he smoothly rolled off the table and landed on all fours on the floor. Slowly, he began crawling towards me, too.

"You know," Tommy said, while sloshing through the pool of his own blood, "I see it differently. I think there's only one reason why this happened. And if you hadn't been so stupid … or maybe if you'd had the guts to kill that clown … then we wouldn't be meatsicles right now."

" _What will we do with the drunken sailor? Oh, what will we do with the drunken sailor?_ " Lisa sang softly.

They were on top of me now. Lisa and Tommy were so close I could see the dried blood that coated their faces, underneath the fresh blood that continually seeped from their wounds. Jack was not far behind.

"What indeed?" Tommy asked, pressing his repulsive face inches from mine.

Jack suddenly stood up to his full height, stepping up right between Lisa and Tommy. Again he made his awful laughing noise, blazing eyes fixed on me. In unison Lisa, Jack, and Tommy reached their grasping hands for me.

"I don't care that you're dead." I said. "I _don't_."

All three of their faces split into bloody grins.

I felt something very hot right next to my face. It seared my skin and I gasped in pain as the scene before me suddenly dissolved. I opened my eye to find myself lying, once more, on the floor of the freezer.

The searing, burning pain was still there and I desperately pushed myself away from it and climbed to a sitting position, leaning against the steel door.

"Rise and shine, scumbag."

Crouching in front of me - and holding my lighter no less - was Red.

"Bad dreams?" He asked slyly.

I said nothing.

"You're quite the troublemaker, aren't you?" Red continued. With his free hand, he indicated the freezer around us, and looked about it like he couldn't believe it. "How the hell did you manage to get yourself locked in here with the Abominable Snowman?"

"You're ... real, right?" I asked. I don't know if it was because I was still recovering from my dreams, or whether because of long exposure to the cold, or because Victor had hit me on the head, but I felt very out of sorts. I was finding it difficult to string my words together. I also wasn't entirely sure I was actually awake. Maybe Red was my version of the Ghost of Christmas Future, and he had come to have his say, just like the others.

"Oh, I'm real." Red said. "Real enough to hurt you."

He threateningly moved the flame closer. I made a move to snatch it out of his hands but he quickly drew it back. Red chuckled.

"I think I might hold on to this. Consider it payment for ripping up my note. Why'd you have to go and do that, by the way?"

I stared at his eyes, dark behind his mask. I could feel anger bubbling up from somewhere inside, again.

"Oh, yes," Red continued, "I saw you. Followed you all the way here, as a matter of fact. Trying to run away, after everything I told you … I am so very disappointed in you. I thought you got the message, but apparently I need to drive it home one more time."

With a sharp click, Red snapped the lighter shut and extinguished the flame. Carefully, he placed it on the ground beside him, then drew a large combat knife from his belt.

My breath rose up in clouds in front of me.

"I left you a present in your room, under your bed. It'll look kind of like a syringe to you. Strap it on to your wrist and hide it under your sleeve. It's easy to operate, you can activate it with the palm of your hand … can you guess what I want you to do with it?"

"Not a … cure for frostbite … is it?"

"No. But do make sure you get treatment for this. You don't have my permission to die just yet. No, this is what I want: when you shake the Joker's hand - which you will do - I want you to stick him full of that stuff. It won't kill him, but he'll be unconscious in ten seconds. I'll take it from there."

"Listen," I said, my voice weak and quavering. "I … really can't do this … again."

"That's funny," Red said, drawing a gloved finger across the blade of his knife, "because I don't recall giving you a choice."

Suddenly, reaching his free hand out he seized my wrist and thrust it onto the cold floor. Forcibly splaying my fingers apart, Red slowly lowered the edge of the knife until the cold steel touched the ring finger of my left hand, and I could see the blade cut into my skin.

"But if you're really set on letting me down here," Red said, "then I do hope you weren't planning on getting married."


	18. Chapter 18

"I … I need … another minute … to think about it."

"No, you don't. You've had plenty of time. Now I'm making the situation very simple for you."

Red slightly increased the pressure of the blade, and I felt it cut an infinitesimal amount further into my finger. My right hand was shaking like mad, but Red kept my left hand locked down. I noticed his hands were steady. In fact, he seemed as unaffected by the cold as Victor had been.

"Aren't … aren't you like a vigilante, right? One of the … _good_ … ones?"

"Your point?"

"Just seems … a little unheroic … to be cutting into someone, just to get something you want."

"Different rules for scumbags, I'm afraid. And you're not exactly on the side of the angels. I'm just trying to help you redeem yourself, man. This is an opportunity to take out the damn _Joker_. If that's not appealing to you …"

Red shook his head, like he couldn't believe he was even contemplating such a thought.

"... like I said. You must be a coward. Or you don't care what the Joker does."

I remembered that Quinzel had also used the word _opportunity_ to describe what she wanted me to do. The two of them ought to compare notes. I'm sure they'd have a lot to talk about.

"You know …" I said, making my voice as thoughtful as I could. Not an easy thing to do when one's teeth are chattering. "... I never thought about it … like that."

The pressure of the blade eased, slightly.

"Yeah … you know what? I'll do it."

The mask hid Red's expression. I searched his eyes for any flicker of surprise, relief, or suspicion. But they were as hard and unreadable as stone. He also was not lifting the knife any further from my ring finger. After a moment, he bent his head a little closer to mine. And now his eyes were boring into my single one, clearly trying to see if I was sincere. I contorted my face into a pretty good imitation of genuine innocence.

"If you're lying to me," Red began, "and if you don't follow through ... there is no power in heaven or hell that will stop me from -"

An electronic beep cut through the hum of the freezer, and Red's head snapped towards the door. I followed his gaze, and saw the steel door opening slowly. Next instant the pressure of the knife vanished from my finger. I sensed a rush of moment, rapid footfalls, and a loud metal clanging. When I glanced back, Red was gone. One of the grates from the vents had been ripped from its place and now lay abandoned on the floor. He was crawling through the walls of the asylum like a rat.

I also could not fail to notice that he had been serious about taking my lighter from me. That bastard.

Somebody's shadow fell over me, and I looked up to see Irene from group therapy. She was holding Jeremiah's key card.

"What … the hell … are you doing here?" I asked.

"Most people say 'Thank you.'" Irene said.

I glanced past her and saw that her genetic counterpart, Irwin, was standing by the door to the antechamber and holding it open. He was looking back the way they'd come, as if on the lookout. And that made me want to laugh so hard I'd burst a blood vessel. But, given my condition, all I could manage was a wheezing gasp. What exactly did they think they were going to do if someone had showed up? Hell, if Red had known the kind of people that were walking in on him, he really shouldn't have bothered trying to be secretive. One look from him and the two of them probably would have just wilted.

"Are you hurt?" That was Irene again.

"No," I said, turning back to Irene, "but … _that_ … is mine."

I pointed at the key card. A drop of blood seeped out of the cut in my finger and fell to the floor. Irene followed it with her gaze. Then she studied my face. I guess she was taking in my frigid visage, and the several bruises that punctuated it.

"You should really get to the infirmary."

"Absolutely … not." I said. "I … am … fine."

Shortly after that I collapsed into unconsciousness. Thankfully, though, I had no dreams. And when I awoke, I was immediately aware that I was in a warmer place. Slightly. I was out in the corridor of the Icarus Wing. Irwin and Irene were standing over me, the door to Victor's cell closed and locked behind them.

"Still alive, then?" Irwin said. He sounded less than enthusiastic. I did not answer, and instead concentrated on pulling myself to my feet. I was still feeling weak, so I leaned back against the wall for support, and glanced between the siblings. Between the two of them, they had a strange mixture of emotions: irritation, concern, fear, and a kind of wondering. As if they were thinking _Will he … ?_ I could see it clear as day. They wanted something.

"That's still mine." I said, indicating the key card.

"We doubt that. Patients don't carry these things."

"I do."

"Why?"

"Because … I'm smart," I said, raising a finger to my temple. The two of them exchanged a look.

"We found it -"

"-outside. On the floor here."

"Just give it." I snapped, holding out my hand. Irene made no movement to comply.

"Actually," Irwin said, shifting his weight, "there was something we wanted to ask you."

"Perhaps," Irene said, "we can reach an agreement."

"I'm sorry," I said, "but you'll have to get in line. I've just got … too many offers … at the moment. Please speak ... with my secretary …"

I could feel the darkness pressing on my skull again, threatening to drag me back to unconsciousness. I placed a hand behind me, against the white wall, and steadied myself. I would have just walked away from these two if I thought I could.

"Here us out." Irene said.

"Because you gave us the idea." Irwin said.

"We've been thinking a lot about what you said."

"About how they'll probably never let us out on our own."

"And we just can't stand being here anymore."

"And we thought you might feel the same."

I raised my eye and looked from one to the other. I could tell they were still a little irritated with me. Particularly Irwin. I was pretty sure a lot of that stemmed from their collective shame. But they also seemed like they were serious about what they were proposing. Well, what I thought they were proposing, anyway.

"You thinking …" I said, lowering my voice, "... about escaping?"

They nodded.

"And, uh … how far along have you thought? Do you have … a plan?"

They shook their heads.

"We thought maybe -"

"- you could help with that."

I snorted. I couldn't believe I was the first person they'd thought of when considering a partner in crime. True, the selection wasn't great, but _come on_.

"Come now," Irene said. "You must not want to be here."

"After everything that happened."

"And everything that might."

"Wouldn't you like to get away from it?"

"Isn't that what you're doing down here anyway?"

They did make some compelling arguments. I had only been planning to hide in some dark, deep hole and wait the whole play thing out. But, I had to admit, I was having difficulty accomplishing that. And even if I did, would it really help matters? Quinzel, Jeremiah, Crane, and all the rest would be waiting for me when I emerged. The more I thought about it, the more it seemed I had only been pursuing a temporary solution to a much more complicated problem. Perhaps an unsolvable problem. Maybe the best thing was to try to escape, even if the chances of success were small. After all, if I had left when I had the chance down in the sewers, I would still have had both my eyes. Who knew what other horrors the asylum had in store?

"Alright," I said, "let's escape."

Somebody coughed. Irwin and Irene looked, startled, down the hall. I followed their gazes and saw pretty much the last person I wanted to see.

"You gotta be kidding," I muttered.

Quinzel had slipped into the Icarus Wing, unseen by any of us. And I could tell from her expression that she had heard everything she needed to. Fixing us with a cold stare, she slowly pulled out a mobile phone and dialed a number.

"Hello, Dr. Meredith," Quinzel said, "I'm afraid two of your patients have been rather naughty … yes, that's right."

She told the other doctor where we were, and promised she would keep an eye on the two. Throughout the exchange, Irwin and Irene did not move a muscle. This, combined with the fact that their faces were drained of color, made them look as if they were pretty much dead already. If I hadn't been implicated in this whole thing, I would have found it amusing. As it was, I could still appreciate the fact that we had probably just run the shortest escape attempt in Arkham's history. Foiled not moments after it was conceived.

Quinzel hung up.

"Listen," I said, "doc -"

"Save it." Quinzel said, looking daggers at me. I saved it. No one said another word until Dr. Byron Meredith strode into the Icarus Wing, his white coat billowing about his heels, eyes crackling with anger. When he saw Irwin and Irene he stopped, setting his jaw stoically.

"Follow me." That was all he said. Without waiting to see if they complied, Dr. Meredith turned back the way he'd come. Irwin and Irene followed meekly in his wake, watched over coldly by Quinzel.

But Irwin went first, and as he passed by me he stepped in front of his sister, shielding her from either of the doctors' gazes. Without making eye contact, or giving any other kind of signal, Irene pressed Jeremiah's key card into my hand and continued on.

Then they were gone, and I was left alone with the good doctor.

* * *

"What - exactly - was your plan?"

We were back in Quinzel's office. She hadn't given me very much time to recover. In fact, she didn't even let me go back to my room. I quick stop at the infirmary to confirm I wasn't on the brink of death and then, accompanied by a guard, I was marched down to her office. There was no Crane there this time, which I was grateful for.

"I dunno." I said. Both my mind and my voice were much clearer now, and I was feeling more like myself. Which, I supposed, was another thing to be grateful for. "Just figured anything would be better than what you had planned."

Quinzel leaned back and exhaled irritably.

"I thought you got the message," she said.

"You going to drive it home some more?" I asked sardonically, "Maybe threaten to take off a few of my fingers?"

"No. From now until the night of the play, you will be placed under temporary confinement. A guard will be stationed outside your cell."

"And if I try to escape again?" I asked innocently.

"In that case," Quinzel said, her eyes hardening, "I will update your status to Red-Grade. And that will be permanent. Do you understand?"

I didn't say anything, but Quinzel was not in the mood to play guessing games, so I suppose she assumed I understood what was at stake.

"What about the other two?" I asked after a few moments.

"The Caldwell twins are Dr. Meredith's patients. He will deal with them as he sees fit."

"He seemed livid."

"Do I _not_ seem livid to you?"

"Well … it's not as harsh as I was expecting, to be honest."

"Would you like me to rectify that?"

"Obviously not. I was only curious if there was a reason for that. Is there something bothering you, doc?"

"That's hardly your business."

"I think it is." I said, fixing her with my eye, "in fact, it's my job. Didn't you know?"

Quinzel stared at me with a mixture of irritation and puzzlement, like she thought I might actually have gone crazy.

"That's right." I said, affecting a tone of mild concern, like the doc herself sometimes used. "It's my job to go rooting around in your mind, pushing on this and pulling on that, spit-polishing the grimy bits and shining spotlights exactly where you don't want them. But don't you worry, because I'm an expert and I know best. So why don't you tell me how that makes you feel, my oh-so-very-psycho-therapist?"

I thought Quinzel's hard expression would become, if possible, even more rigid. I thought her eyes would narrow and, after a short and heavy silence, she would coldly rebuke me for my petulant words. But instead of doing any of that, Quinzel laughed.

It was somewhat jarring. Especially since she laughed a short, high-pitched trill. Not unlike fingernails scraping across a chalkboard.

"My, my," Quinzel said, and she was suddenly no longer the cold, disapproving doctor. "I thought you were just putting on a show for Red Hood, but it's really getting to you, isn't it? That's _funny_."

It took me a moment to register what she'd said.

"What's a … Red Hood?"

"Oh, don't." Quinzel said, smiling, "The vigilante that threatened to slice your finger off not thirty minutes ago? Demanded you incapacitate Patient Eight-Zero-One at the conclusion of our play? Left a device in you cell to get the job done?"

Quinzel then raised a hand, holding what looked like a syringe to me. It had a leather strap attached to it. The slender needle glinted wickedly in the light of her desk lamp. I didn't really know what to say, so I said nothing. I guess the look on my face must have been something, because Quinzel gave another short, tinkling laugh.

"How do you think the Caldwells found you so quickly? Because I found you first. But when it became clear what the situation was ... well, how could I risk that vigilante knowing I was on to him? So I hinted to dear Irwin and Irene where you might have gone, and what trouble you might be in. Dr. Meredith has often spoken about how terribly guilty the two of them feel about what happened to you."

"You," I said, finally finding my voice. "have to shut down your play. If things don't go as planned, he's not going to stop. Your demonstration will become a nightmare."

Quinzel was silent for a moment, slowly turning the syringe in her fingers. She was no longer smiling, but the amusement remained in her eyes.

"No," she said at last, "No. It's far too late for that, I'm afraid. You know what they say about the show … but if you breathe a word of this to anyone, I will lock you away for the rest of your life in complete and utter solitude. Until it drives you mad."

Everything from that point on happened much as Quinzel said it would. From the moment I left her office I was accompanied by a guard. He remained stationed outside my cell, where I remained all day. My meals were brought to me. The only time I was allowed to leave was during practices, and I was escorted from my cell to the theater, where I watched the progress of Quinzel's play. At the end, the guard ushered me on stage where I performed my 'part' and shook Quinzel's hand, who took the place of the Joker until the night in question. After that, I was sent back.

So the weeks passed, my days filled with boredom and my nights filled with unpleasantness. And before I knew it, _mate_ , the day of the play arrived.


	19. Chapter 19

There were a group of patients that were especially close to Quinzel. From what I understood, they were some of her very first patients. They had worked with her for years, and she seemed more open with them than the rest of us. One could often see their little group gathered around the doctor, their heads bent in quiet conversation. Such was the case when I entered the auditorium that night.

In the play, this close-knit group had all been cast as members of the Jackrabbit Kingdom. It made for a strange sight tonight, them in their rabbit masks surrounding Quinzel, who spoke to them in hushed tones. As I made my way past the small group, one of its members turned his Jackrabbit-face towards me, his eyes following me until I disappeared backstage. I wondered if they had been talking about me. But perhaps I was being too self-centered.

The backstage was not actually behind the stage, but beside it, stage right. Like almost everything in this theater, it was cramped. And tonight it was stuffed full of patients in strange and surreal costumes. Since I was not in costume, I felt a little conspicuous. But no one else seemed to care. They were too busy milling about aimlessly, like confused spirits. I pushed my way between a man in bloodred suit and patient with a spider mask and made it to the back, leaning against it and closing my eyelids.

So this was it then, _mate_. All my schemes had come to nought. Quinzel expected me to go out on that stage and shake the Joker's hand. Red Hood expected me to knock him unconscious with a syringe I no longer had. I had no idea what Red would do when I didn't deliver. But I didn't want to be anywhere near him when it came to that. Unfortunately, I didn't see how that was possible.

"You scared?"

I opened my eyelids to find none other than Lonnie, leaning back against the wall next to me. He wasn't looking at me though. His gaze was fixed on something in the midst of the milling patients, and he was chewing his lip. He held a golden mask loosely in his hand.

"Should I be?" I asked.

"Probably," he said, still not looking at me. "But maybe it's not so bad the second time."

I followed his line of sight as best I could through the crowd. It was not long before I spotted Sionis, standing erect and still in the middle of the small sea of patients. His face, as usual, was blank. But his eyes darted from here to there, clearly searching for something. Or someone. I glanced back at Lonnie.

"Are _you_ scared?"

Lonnie chuckled, but it sounded just a little bit too hearty.

"I am not." He said. "Believe me, if you'd seen what I've seen, you wouldn't scare easily either. However … " And then Lonnie did turn towards me. " … I hope I can confide something to you in the strictest confidence. Considering there's a good chance you'll be dead before the night is out."

"Uh … you may."

"I do believe," Lonnie said, lowering his voice despite the dull roar of conversation that surrounded us, "that Black Mask wants to murder me. And I think he's going to try tonight."

At first, I found this fact mildly interesting. For whatever reason, the night of this play seemed to be very attractive to people with murderous intentions. My second thought was that if Lonnie was murdered on stage, it was very unlikely that the play would continue.

"You don't say?" I said, scanning the room again for Sionis.

"Listen," Lonnie said, "I know we might have had our differences. But right now I think we have common cause. Neither of us want to see this thing through to the end. Am I wrong?"

I shook my head.

"Good. So what do you say we cause a little chaos and shut this whole thing down?"

"Have you thought it through any further than that?"

Lonnie closed his eyes briefly. I think he was frustrated. With me, specifically. Like part of him couldn't believe what he was doing.

"There," he began, "is another room just like this one. One the opposite side of the stage. That's where they control the lights and things. All you need to do is get over there - unseen - and turn it all off. Make the theater go dark and stay dark. That'll allow me to get away from Sionis and you to get away before they bring out the Joker. I'm sure the ensuing anarchy will be enough to convince the administration not to try this again."

"That sounds very dangerous."

"Yeah, boo-hoo. This thing's headed south anyway you slice it. Least this way it gets to be on our terms."

I would have said something back to him, but Dr. Quinzel suddenly appeared backstage just then, dressed all in black, her retinue of Jackrabbits slipping in behind and dispersing into the crowd. The doctor was clearly very excited.

" _Well_ , here we are at last." Quinzel said, her eyes darting quickly over the group. "Thank you all so very much. None of this would be possible without your willingness and commitment. I am confident that your dedication will be rewarded. This is a very special night for all of you … and for our guests of course, for whom this is all for. Let us give them something to remember tonight."

And with that, Quinzel then asked the players of the opening scene to take their places on stage, to be ready when the play began. About two-thirds of the cast filed away up the short staircase that led to the stage. Lonnie was among this group.

"I'll be waiting," he said to me, before slipping his golden mask on.

"Never said I'd do it," I said, as Lonnie turned away. He glanced back over his shoulder, his left eye fixing on me. It seemed like he was trying to tell me: _No, but I know you will._ And then he was gone.

There weren't too many people left backstage now. The Jackrabbits were all still there, and a scattering of other patients in costumes. Quinzel had disappeared back out to the auditorium. I straightened and crossed the backstage to the door, cracking it open and peering out with my eye. The auditorium was beginning to fill with guests. You may find this amusing, _mate_ , but I thought it strange to see ordinary people again. People who did not live their lives surrounded by white walls and who could go where they pleased. And where they pleased, apparently, was a play put on by lunatics.

Upon further reflection, I decided that anyone who came here couldn't really be that ordinary.

A few minutes before the curtain was drawn, and the theater was far from full. A good portion of the audience were weirdos with nothing better to do. You could tell just by looking at them. They were here to see something strange and crazy, and they wouldn't settle for anything less. Then there were a scattering of more proper people. They looked like intellectuals to me. People who were interested in the psychology of the thing. And the patients. Last of all there were a few - and I mean like three - rich, upper class types. From what I had overheard, one of them had announced he was going, and that kind of brought a little more attention to the play. I guess those two other people had considered it something of a fad. Like it was a charity or something. I wondered if Quinzel would be disappointed with the showing. She didn't seem to be showing any, from what I could see of her, sitting in a seat at the far end of the first row, gazing expectantly at the dark stage.

 _And she looked upon her works and saw that they were good_.

A few days ago, as I was being escorted to the theater by my guard, I noticed something strange. The abandoned wing of the asylum next to the theater, which had always been locked tight with a chain and padlock, was now open. Stranger still, the inside of it looked remarkably clean. There was no sign of the copious filth that had covered it before.

"Isn't it nice?" The guard has said to me when I asked him about it. "Dr. Quinzel's doing. Walked right in there last night. Must've been there for at least an hour. And when she came out there was a man with her."

The lights slowly began to dim and the quiet hum of conversation died. It became so dark that I could barely see my hand in front of my face. In the blackness and the stillness we waited, completely unaware of the passage of time. Until the sound of recorded piano music filled the silence. The onstage lights blazed into life and the curtain opened on the first scene of the play.

With everyone's attention on the drama it was now, theoretically, the time for me to consider what to do. I thought Lonnie's idea was not a terrible one. It seemed pretty dangerous, but you'd need to do something to convince the administration to shut the thing down. And so long as I did it before they dragged the Joker out, I thought things could turn out alright. He would never get his chance to escape, and Red would never get his chance to kill him. It occurred to me, briefly, that Red might even now be out there in the audience. I had, after all, no idea what he looked like under that mask.

However, Lonnie's plan wasn't exactly airtight. There were would be at least one person, maybe more, in the control room. I would have to deal with them somehow. This did not worry me terribly, though. I felt I had acquitted myself reasonably well against several psychopaths. How hard could it be to intimidate a couple of lowly stagehands?

But getting there was another matter altogether. There were really only two possibilities: across the stage or through the audience. The latter would be almost impossible, I thought, what with Quinzel sitting just out there. And if she spotted me going out-of-bounds again … Finding a way to get across the stage while the play was in progress, while undoubtedly a more complicated affair, was probably less risky. So I decided that would be my first attempt.

I gently closed the door and stepped away, turning toward the stairs that led up to the stage. But I was stopped in my tracks by a very unexpected sight: every single one of the Jackrabbits, scattered here and there about the room, were staring at me. There were several other costumed patients in the room, but the Quinzel's inner circle seemed to think I was the only one present. I took a few steps towards the stairs, and the Jackrabbits' eyes followed me. I stood still for a moment, and looked the closest one in the eye. The patient behind the mask stared right back, unblinking. I moved back towards the door and the eyes followed me all the way. Needless to say, it was strange and slightly unnerving. And the implications were problematic.

I decided to press on. I walked uprightly across the room, my attention focused entirely on the stairs, ignoring all the other stares. From this new position I could see up and onto the stage where the Hunter, the protagonist of the play, was morosely wandering about while other masked characters passed on by. At the far end of the stage I could see a closed door. That was it.

I was considering simply sprinting full across the stage. I was pretty sure I could make it there before anyone realized what I was doing. But before I had fully committed, one of the Jackrabbits was suddenly standing next to me.

I looked him up and down. Other than fixing me with an unblinking stare, he wasn't doing anything threatening.

"What?" I said, biting off the word. The Jackrabbit said nothing.

I took a step up the stairs and, not a moment later, both the Jackrabbit's hands shot upward, palms facing outward. Almost like he was surrendering. The quick movement surprised me, and I stopped, tensing in case his hands came for me next.

The Jackrabbit remained still for a moment, clearly showing me his empty hands. Then, theatrically, he brought his hands down and began to circle them together. He started slow and gradually increased his speed until finally, with a magician's flourish, he seemed to pull a long knife out of thin air. The Jackrabbit brought the weapon up and levelled it at me. I stared at the thin blade, surprised. He gave me little time to dwell on that matter, however. As quickly as he had made it appear, the Jackrabbit brought the knife down and vanished it away. He stared at me again. I could tell he was more than a little amused. And in his eyes I could clearly see what he was thinking: _That's what_.

I retreated from the stairs to the far back wall of the room, where there was a small table with tools on it to mend any damaged costumes, like a stapler, safety pins, and needle. The knife-wielding Jackrabbit remained by the stairs, and he and his brethren kept their eyes locked on me all the time.

The first scene ended shortly after that, many of the actors spilling down backstage again, Lonnie among them. He didn't come over to me, but he shot me a look of mild impatience. As the play continued on, these looks become more frequent and more impatient. By the time the intermission rolled around, it was too much for the kid. He marched straight over to me.

"What the hell, man?" The kid spat, ripping off his golden mask."What are you still doing here? Get on with it."

"Ran into a little snag."

I told him what had happened with the Jackrabbits. Lonnie didn't really seem to buy it until he noticed that some of them were still staring at me, even now. The others, during the course of the first act, had directed their gazes toward other patients, watching them as intently as they had watched me. One of those patients was Lonnie. The realization seemed to take him aback.

"That's … hm."

"I might not be the best person for your little mission. Maybe find someone else. Or do it yourself."

"No … " He said. "That won't work." Lonnie trailed off, apparently lost in thought. He gazed off into a dark corner, his eyes vacant and unseeing. He absentmindedly tapped his finger against the golden mask.

"What about during their scene? They've just got the one, don't they? The Jackrabbit Kingdom."

"What about it?"

"They can't watch you if they're onstage, can they?"

"Yeah, well I'll have to cross the stage somehow. They'll see me then."

"But what are they going to do about?"

"I don't know. I doubt they'll just stand there."

The lights flickered briefly off and on, indicating the second act would start shortly. Lonnie gave me a frustrated look. He drew breath, apparently about to give me talking-to, but I cut him off.

"Here's what we'll. Or _I'll_ do, rather. The Jackrabbit Kingdom scene is right before the Battle. Nearly everyone goes onstage for that. As the Jackrabbits are coming off, I'll sneak on with everyone else. Even if they notice, they probably won't be able to do anything at that point."

Lonnie did not look convinced.

"That's the second-to-last scene. That doesn't give you a lot of time."

"It'll have to do."

The second act began, and Lonnie was called away. To pass the time, and distract myself from the staring Jackrabbits, I peered out at the audience and tried to gauge their reaction to the play. This proved difficult, as I could not see very many of them from my position. I could better hear the progress of the play, and because I had seen it performed so many times, I knew exactly what was happening. The second act of the play was the Hunter's journey through space, and all the strange made-up people and places there. The story of the second act involved the Hunter accidentally causing a war between two factions: the City of Wings and the Travelling Circus. Before the final climactic battle, the Hunter fled through the Jackrabbit Kingdom and ended up at edge of the universe.

When the time came for their scene, the Jackrabbits finally dropped their gazes from me and moved towards the stairs, filing on stage without a backward glance. I let out a breath that I didn't realize I'd been holding. It is not a pleasant thing to be stared at continuously for more than an hour. As the Jackrabbit scene was a short one, I moved to join the crowd of actors who took part in the battle scene. But I was not there long before Lonnie suddenly burst from the crowd and pushed me back and away from everyone else towards the small table.

"He's here," Lonnie said to me fiercely, "he's here and he's coming. You have to go now."

He tried to thrust his golden mask into my hands.

"GIve it a minute," I told him through gritted teeth. "In a damn minute."

"No." Lonnie said, his eyes blazing, "Go now or I'll-"

"Or what?" I said disdainfully, "what are you going to-"

The golden mask slammed into my face, knocking me backwards and off balance. An instant later, I felt Lonnie grab the back of my head and force it down flat on the table beside us. The mask that he had thrust upon me was still there, kept in place between the surface of the table and my face. I felt Lonnie seize the strap that fastened the mask in place and pull it tight against the back of my skull. And then I saw Lonnie's hand come into view and pick up the stapler that lay in front of my one good eye.

"Oh no, you -" I began, but Lonnie's free hand clamped like a vice unto my windpipe. And then a second later he stapled the strap of the mask to the back of my head.

It wasn't possible for me to scream, but I absolutely would have.

"Now," Lonnie said, "go." And he hurled me forward into the middle of the room. Right into the path of the oncoming Sionis. Somehow, despite the pain and shock, I managed to stop myself from running directly into him. I looked up at his gaunt, skull-like face and detected a slight flicker of astonishment in his hollow eyes. Had the situation been different, perhaps I would have smiled.

I had no idea if he thought I was Lonnie behind the golden mask, but I wasn't going to wait around to find out. Or, hell, maybe I wasn't even thinking that clearly. Maybe I just wanted to get away from everyone. I don't know. But I staggered past him, shrinking down low to the ground and moving as fast as I could possibly manage. But before I had taken three steps, his hands clamped down on my shoulders and he wrenched me close to him, his dark eyes boring into mine. It only took him a moment to see that while my left eye was rolling wildly about, my right was quite still. Even so, it was a moment too long.

Lonnie rushed up behind Sionis and cracked him over the head with the stapler. The hollow-eyed man staggered under the impact, releasing me and wheeling wildly about, his hands grasping for the kid. Lonnie ducked out of the way and then struck at Sionis again, this time landing a blow squarely on his jaw. The man's face snapped to the side, towards me. And, just as it had so many weeks ago in our group therapy session, I saw Sionis' blank face melt into that chilling death mask. Slowly, he turned his face back towards Lonnie, and the sight of it was enough to stop the kid in his tracks. Sionis' hand shot out, ripped the stapler from Lonnie's hands, and then stepped towards him.

With pain still shooting through my skull, I scuttled away from the two of them. I shrank into a corner of the backroom as everyone else emptied out onto the stage for the battle scene. With their attention all focused on the play, no one noticed the fight between Lonnie and Sionis. At least, not until the room had completely emptied and the Jackrabbits came rushing back down into the room. Quinzel's devotees went right past me and closed in on Lonnie and Sionis. Two of them appeared beside the kid, each seizing and arm and dragging him back and away. The others surrounded Sionis like a noose, and the Jackrabbit that had threatened me laid his knife languidly across the man's throat. The stapler fell from Sionis' hand.

Miraculously, Quinzel's lackeys had ended the conflict in the blink of an eye. It was really stunning, how smoothly they had operated. But my involuntarily admiration abruptly disappeared when I realized that all the Jackrabbits were now clustered around Lonnie and Sionis. Furthermore, whether I liked it or not, I had a mask stapled to my head which concealed my identity. Somehow, I found the short staircase and, like a rabbit fleeing from a fox, I raced up it and emerged onto the bright stage.

The battle between the City of Wings and the Travelling Circus had begun. The choreographed chaos swirled through the stage, the masked performers theatrically engaging one another in combat, while the music rose and fell exhilaratingly. At times it seemed more like a dance than a war. There was so much going on, I doubted anyone noticed one more masked patient. I stepped further into the fray, stumbling now to the right and now to the left as actors in bird masks and carnival make-up rushed past me.

With the lights shining directly down on us, the audience was a sea of darkness. Quinzel was out there somewhere. Would she notice the one person who wasn't supposed to be there stumbling through her meticulously planned scene? I stuck to the back of the stage, doing my best to hide behind the other actors. If I didn't make it across the stage before the scene ended I would stick out like a sore thumb. After this battle scene, there was only the final dance between the Hunter and the Jester. And then the demonstration. Taking several deep breaths, and telling myself the pain wasn't so bad, I quickened my pace.

When I had made it about halfway, something made me glance back. And it was a very good thing that I did. Three of the Jackrabbits had emerged from backstage and entered the battle. They weren't supposed to be in the scene, but I supposed that like me, nobody noticed or cared. Unlike me, the three of them seamlessly joined the action of the scene. Looking like they had practiced it all along, the Jackrabbits flowed from one part of the stage to the other, harmoniously proceeding through the pandemonium.

It was only a matter of time before one of the Jackrabbit masks turned in my direction, and its owner caught my eye. I threw caution to the wind and ran, as fast as I could manage, across the stage. No longer caring if I made a scene I pushed any actors that crossed my path out of the way. Not knowing if my pursuers had abandoned their pretense or were still trying to preserve the play, I finally reached the door and thrust it open. Shocked that I had actually made it, with a staple in my head no less, I stood for a moment staring down into the little room. Most of it was taken up by a board of switches and buttons, over which stood two operators, a man and a woman. They both looked up, the light from the stage shining down on them.

I only took one step down the stairs when I realized the operators were not looking up at _me_ in surprise. They were looking behind me. A second later something slammed into my back, knocking me off balance. I tumbled down the stairs and into the room, crashing into the floor. Somebody screamed. The door to the control room was quickly pulled shut, extinguishing the brightness spilling in from the stage. Only a little light above the switchboard remained. By its glow I saw one of the Jackrabbits descending, knife in hand. Before I could struggle to my feet the Jackrabbit was upon me.

"Oh no, you don't."

The voice was light and silky. I couldn't tell if it was male or female. But I did feel the blade of the knife slide beneath my golden mask and press against my throat. The two operators were staring at us in shock and horror, clearly very much out of their element. The Jackrabbit cast them an unconcerned glance.

"Continue."

After exchanging a terrified look, the operators turned shakily back to their switchboard. Meanwhile, the Jackrabbit reached a hand behind my head, feeling for the strap that kept the mask in my place. I felt the fingers press against the staple, sending another jolt of pain through my skull.

"Heh." The Jackrabbit said. Then, realizing what was about to happen right before it did, the mask was ripped off my face so forcefully that it tore the staple out with it. And this time I did scream, but the battle raging on stage had reached a climax at that precise moment, the music crescendoing so loudly that it drowned me out. I felt blood gush down the back of my neck and soak into my collar. Tears of pain leaked out of my sockets - even the one with a prosthetic eye - and rolled down my cheeks.

"Oh, cheer up." The Jackrabbit said, dragging me to my feet. "It'll be your time soon."

There was a small television monitor above the switchboard which, for the benefit of the operators, showed the progress of the play. The Jackrabbit forced me to look at it and, through the mist of pain and tears, I watched the remainder of the battle scene. When it had reached its final conclusion, the lights went down outside and we heard a smattering of tepid applause.

And then the final scene of the show played out before my eye: the Hunter and the Jester dancing together at the end of the universe.

"It's perfect, isn't it?" The Jackrabbit said in my ear. "Dr. Quinzel worked everything out quite well."

It seemed to last forever, but eventually the curtains closed and the play was over. There was another round of lukewarm applause, although this one lasted a little longer. One of the operators hit a switch, and a spotlight appeared in front of the curtains, as Quinzel herself walked out onstage. She acknowledged the applause with a wave of her hand.

"Thank you so very much. I do hope all of you have gained a great deal from our humble little allegory. It is my sincere hope that it will inspire the citizens of Gotham for years to come. And … as part and parcel with that hope … it is my great pleasure to inform you that our production is not quite finished."

"Let's go." The Jackrabbit said, giving me a push towards the stairs. Half-stumbling, the Jackrabbit roughly guided me up the stairs and onto the stage, behind the closed curtains. The rest of the Jackrabbits were already assembled there, arranged in a half-circle, their knives concealed. I was forced to take my place in the center, and I felt the knife moved down from my neck to the small of my back, where it would be hidden from the view of the audience.

"As you many of you are aware, our community has recently suffered a great tragedy. Four of our most vibrant friends and colleagues were cruelly taken from us. Their names were Lisa Barrister, Jack Daley, Thomas Fabian, and Aiden Tanner. This play is dedicated to their memory."

Quinzel paused for a moment of silence.

"However, we are not here only to remember the past, but also to look to the future. And to do that, we cannot cling to old wounds. A grudge is a heavy thing to carry. If we want to move forward together, we must learn to live with one another. Each and everyone of us."

The large red curtains split apart and were drawn back slowly, revealing Quinzel standing before the audience, invisible and faceless in the dark. The stage lights were once again brought up and without looking behind her, Quinzel indicated me to the crowd and told everyone what my name was.

"He," Quinzel continued, "quite terribly lost an eye in the incident. A very horrible thing indeed. But he holds no ill will against the man who afflicted him. Exhibiting a courage the likes of which I have never seen before, tonight he has graciously agreed to demonstrate the depths of his belief in our shared humanity."

The spotlight switched on, now pointed directly at the entrance to the theater. The Joker stood there, erect, arms handcuffed in front of him, a gag clamped over the lower half of his head. Two guards, rifles at the ready, flanked him. Gasps of shock and shouts of surprise resonated through the auditorium. I heard the sounds of people leaping to their feet. I imagine if their had been another exit more than a few members of the audience would have made a beeline for it. I was too far away to read the Joker's expression, but his head was fixed straight head, and did not turn either to the left or the right.

The moment I laid my eye on him a phantom pain flared in my right socket. Into my mind rushed a series of images, each as clear as if they had happened yesterday: Joker, sitting in front of me, chained, laughing in my face. Walking around that corner, tearing the meat cleaver from my gasp. Using that same weapon to cut down Lisa, Jack, and Tommy. And, finally, the Joker standing over me, showing me my own eye.

Quinzel called for him to be brought forward and, directed by his escorts, the Joker strode down the inclined floor. The spotlight followed the trio, and in its light I saw a few of the faces of the audience. Most were either appalled or afraid. Some appeared horrifyingly fascinated. One or two looked excited. Meanwhile, I noticed more guards marching into the theater, spreading out across the back wall and taking aim.

The guards did not follow the Joker as he mounted the stairs to the stage, but remained below. Quinzel stepped to the side as Joker reached the top of the stairs, clearing the way. As she did so, the Joker's head turned to follow her. I realized then that he had had his gaze locked on Quinzel the entire time, completely ignoring me and everyone else. I was close enough to see her smile back at him as he passed her. It was strangely affectionate.

And then the Joker stood in front of me, and I had not been this close to him since the night he'd taken my eye. My pulse pounded in my ears and my hands involuntarily began to shake as he finally turned his head away from Quinzel and toward me. The Joker looked me right in the eye, his own eyes crinkling as he grinned, as best he could, beneath his gag.

"Go." The Jackrabbit whispered in my ear, propelling me to take a step forward. I stumbled slightly, bringing me closer to the Joker than I had intended. His white hands were already outstretched, awkwardly bound together by the handcuffs. It looked like he was begging me for alms. I stood in front of him, my own hands still shaking badly, while his were as steady as stone. I felt Quinzel tense beside us, and I remembered her sitting across the desk from me, insisting I do what she wanted. And I also remembered Red, looming in front of me, pressing his gun to my head. Was he out there in the darkness now, waiting for me to stab the Joker with a syringe I did not have?

I raised my hand to his and placed it in his open palm. The long white fingers curled around mine like a vice. I could not make myself shake his hand, but he forced my own up and down three times. His green eyes were shining with mirth, like it was the funniest thing he'd ever seen. And then he winked at me.

I tore my hand free from his and stepped hurriedly back. I thought that might irritate Quinzel, but she didn't seem to mind at all. She moved forward quickly to center stage, right between us.

"An incredible showing." Quinzel said, indicating both the Joker and I. "Please, join me in showing our very great appreciation and admiration for-"

Before she had finished, the stage lights and the spotlight were both suddenly extinguished, and we were plunged into a complete and utter darkness. But only for a moment. As shouts of surprise erupted in the audience, the lights flickered back on again … and then they went out … and then they came back … and on and on. In between the strobes I saw Quinzel and the Jackrabbits, the latter raising their knives, looking from left to right, above and below. Out in the crowd I saw people moving quickly out of the aisles and toward the exit, not knowing what was happening, but clearly having enough of Quinzel's show. And the guards … the guards were falling down. The two who had accompanied the Joker were already spread across the floor. I couldn't tell if they were unconscious or dead. Each time the lights flickered briefly back on, more and more of the guards stationed at the back had collapsed. The ones still standing were turning wildly about, desperately trying to catch sight of something.

I started to stagger away, stage left, hoping to get down and disappear into the crowd. But before I had made it to the edge, the Jackrabbit that had been guarding me before stepped out of line and smacked me over the head with the handle of the knife. I fell down, and the Jackrabbit advanced, tilting a masked head at me. I pushed myself away, as best I could, until I hit the wall of the stage. The Jackrabbit slowly advanced, pointing the blade at me.

"We're not done with you just yet."

It was then, just out of the corner of my eye, that I caught sight of him. All the guards were down now, and only the Jackrabbits remained in their half-circle behind Quinzel and the Joker. Most of the people in the auditorium had fled. And now, in the flashes of light, I saw Red Hood striding down the aisle toward the stage. He reached the foot of the stairs and stopped, his head turning up toward Quinzel, who stood protectively in front of the Joker. On her face was a look of utter contempt. I was fairly certain that the same expression was mirrored beneath Red's mask.

The Joker stepped up behind Quinzel and threw his arms over her head. She let out a scream of terror and pain as the chain of the handcuffs cut into her neck. The Joker pulled Quizel back, half-turning toward the Jackrabbits. They had all leapt forward when he had seized their doctor, but now with the threat clear, they were stopped in their tracks. Joker looked from the Jackrabbits to Red, his eyes huge and wild. He jerked his head at the vigilante, as if to say: _Get out of the way_.

Red Hood was still only for a moment, looking up at Joker and his hostage, considering. Then, moving so fast he seemed only to be a blur, Red leapt up the stairs and crossed the distance to the Joker before he could back away. Red's left hand seized the Joker's neck and his right grabbed the handcuffed wrists. Then he lifted Joker off his feet, freed Quinzel, and slammed the clown to the ground. Red drove his fists again and again into the Joker's face, knocking his head from side to side and splattering blood across the stage. Then he tore a gun from his belt and pressed it to the Joker's temple. He bent close over him, and I thought he might have said something in the Joker's ear, but I couldn't hear what it was.

I don't know what he was going to do next. Whatever he had planned, it was cut short when the syringe he had given me stabbed into his neck, beneath his mask, and injected its contents. Red Hood's spine stiffened as he felt it, probably realizing instantly what it was. He rose and whirled about as Quinzel pulled the needle free and stepped back. He stared at her for a moment, unbelieving, before his eyes fastened on the syringe in her hand. The syringe that he had last given to me. Red only took one step toward the doctor before the injection began to do its work. He collapsed onto a knee, still trying to scramble forward. Behind him, the Joker was rising up, nearly bouncing on his feet, eyes bulging with silent laughter. In a last ditch effort to have his revenge, Red shakily raised the gun in his hand toward the Joker, but the heavy object fell from his grasp before he could pull the trigger. And a second later Red's unconscious body also hit the floor.

Quinzel, her eyes shining, stepped forward towards the Joker.

"We did it." I heard her say to him. He gazed down at her rapturously, and though he couldn't speak, his eyes seemed to say: _No, you did it._

Quinzel reached a hand behind the Joker's head and unscrewed the mechanism that held the gag in place. It fell to the stage with a thud, right beside Red's mask. Then the Joker reached down to Quinzel, and she reached up to him, and they kissed, as the Jackrabbits behind them broke into wild applause.


	20. Chapter 20

"And what happened next?"

"I think you know."

"Yes, of course. But I want to hear you say it."

"Why? Why do you care what I have to say about it?"

"Because you were there. Obviously. And, correct me if I'm wrong, but I do believe you were the only one to witness the event in its entirety."

"Why _weren't_ you there, by the way? I feel like you should have been."

"Given the benefit of hindsight, are you surprised I was not?"

"Hm."

"Don't read too much into it. I only want to hear the opinion of someone who witnessed the event. So tell me … why do you think it happened?"

"I think … I think he might have let her get away with it. But then she made a mistake."

* * *

Blood was still trickling down the back of my neck, and my breath was long and shallow. My Jackrabbit guard still stood over me, knife pointed directly at me skull. But the masked head was turned towards center stage, where the Joker and Quinzel still stood embraced. My eye flicked towards the edge of the stage. It was only a couple of feet away. Maybe I could make it while the Jackrabbit was distracted. Maybe I could creep through the seats of the now-empty auditorium, make it out before anyone realized I was gone. That was all I cared about. Getting as fast and as far away from this madness as possible.

Before I could make a move, Quinzel and the Joker separated, the doctor stepping back and turning slowly about. Her rapturous gaze passed over the assembled Jackrabbits, who were still applauding. It hovered on me for a few moments and I tensed, not knowing what she might have in mind. The fact that she had actually accomplished her misguided, insane objective despite every obstacle seemed to have signaled to Quinzel that there was nothing she could not do. No rule she could not break. I wouldn't have put anything past her at that point.

I stared back at her but remained perfectly still. A moment later Quinzel moved on and her gaze landed, finally, on the unconscious Red Hood. And I saw another spark of mischief ignite in her eyes. Looking like she almost couldn't help herself, Dr. Quinzel suddenly swooped down and reached for Red Hood's mask. Her fingers curled around the edges, the light of victory still shining in her face.

From somewhere up above a small object came shooting down like a meteorite. Unnoticed by Quinzel, Joker, and most of the Jackrabbits, it soundlessly hit the floor of the stage. But it was impossible to miss what came next.

A cloud of smoke exploded out of the small object, rapidly obscuring the scene. As the cloud rolled outward, I saw Quinzel swiftly standing back up and wheeling towards the Jackrabbits, trying to give them a signal. Before they were swallowed by the smoke, I saw each her patients drawing their knives once more and looking up at the ceiling. I caught one last glimpse of the Joker as well. He, too, was looking up. There was an expression of absolute delight on his face, even more so than when he had gazed upon the triumphant Quinzel. And then I could no longer see them, as the cloud continued billowing toward us.

But I could still hear quite well. A sound, like a great rushing wind, descended from above. A loud thud as something large landed in the midst of the smoke. Sounds of rushing movement, whistling blades, and other strange mechanical noises that I had never heard before. I heard a loud crack and a scream of pain. Something small and sharp came spinning out of the fog and buried itself in the wall beside me. The cloud began to disperse somewhat as it stretched thin across the stage, and I could just make out the silhouettes of the Jackrabbits, moving slowly like ghosts through the fog. Even as I watched, the Jackrabbits mysteriously disappeared, one-by-one. Pulled deeper into the cloud by a shadow that flitted just out of sight. Snuffed out like candles in the dark.

I felt a pricking at my temple, and as slowly as I could I turned. The blade of the knife was quivering slightly. I moved my head as far away from the point as I dared and saw that the hand that held the weapon was shaking. The Jackrabbit was not looking at me, and while the masked head was fixed straight ahead, the eyes desperately darted from here to there. It did the Jackrabbit no good.

Without warning, and coming from God-knew-where, something dark slammed into my captor like a freight train. Instinctively I shut my eyelids tight as whatever it was barreled past, the rush of air that accompanied it biting at my skin. My breath came short and quick, and I remained still with my eye closed, certain that whatever had come leaping out of the dark could not have failed to miss me. But the seconds passed, and nothing happened.

I blinked my eyelids open. The Jackrabbit that had stood over me was gone. The cloud still lingered towards the back of the stage, but in the front it had begun to clear. I could see no sign of Quinzel, Joker, or the other Jackrabbits. All I saw was the unconscious body of Red Hood, still lying where he had fallen. His gun was still there, too. As my eye fell on it, the image of Red pointing it at me rose again in my mind. He had been so sure of himself then. Talking about killing the Joker like it was nothing. Treating my reluctance with anger and contempt. Not to mention our borderline psychopathic conversation in the freezer. Him, threatening to slice off my finger if I didn't do what he wanted and then stealing my lighter. Now there he was, all his bravado gone, sprawled defenseless on the floor.

I made a move toward the gun. I don't know if I wanted to kill him. But I do know I wanted to hurt him. But not a moment before I laid my hand on the cold steel of the weapon, a large black boot came down upon my wrist, flattening it the floor. It felt like a mountain had dropped on top of my arm. Slowly, I raise my eye upward, and I saw the Batman towering above me.

Silent and still, his cowled head bent down, surveying me. The still-flickering lights barely illuminated his face, and I could only just make out the faintest glint of light in his dark eyes. He stared directly down into my single eyeball, and all the while the pressure of his boot on my wrist neither increased nor decreased, but remained perfectly calculated.

He did not say a word.

But I got the message.

The lights flickered again and he was gone. And the gun was gone. And Red Hood was gone.

* * *

"And that was it?"

"Yes, that was … pretty much it."

Crane looked up from the journal he had been writing in, his eyes narrowing behind his mask.

"I need to know everything."

"That was everything important."

"Allow me to be the judge of that."

I sighed in frustration. But it seemed like there would be no getting around it.

"What about the object you said buried itself in the wall beside your head? What was that?"

"A batarang, I presume."

"But you didn't take it with you?"

"No."

"So what did you do?"

"I stumbled off the stage, walked out, and went back to my cell."

"And the others? Did you see what happened to them?"

"The Jackrabbits were unconscious. Spread all across the stage."

"Every single one of them?"

"Yes."

"And the Joker?"

"You know they found him locked back in his cell. Handcuffed and gagged."

"But you didn't see anything to indicate how the Batman might have done that? Or where he came from? Or where he went?"

"No."

"And Quinzel?"

I dropped my gaze. Crane had his head bent over his journal, writing long and slow, not afraid to take his time. Even as I my silence stretched on, he did not comment, but continued making deliberate notes. I gathered my thoughts and took a breath.

"The doc …" I began, before pausing a moment. "... she was there. He didn't take her out. Guess he considered her a civilian or something. But the doc was just standing there, over all the bodies. I only looked back once, right before I walked out the door. Saw her pick up one of the Jackrabbit masks. Well, half of one. It was broken. And the doc just kept on looking at it. And then … well, she started laughing."

Crane stopped writing, just for a moment, and then continued.

"And then you left?"

"Yes."

A minute later, Crane closed his notes. He seemed to think he had gotten quite a lot of good information for his book. "Enough for a whole chapter," as he said. He thanked me for my contribution and promised he would give me an acknowledgment when his book was published. I told him he didn't have to do that, but he insisted. Finally, he stood up to leave and inwardly I breathed a sigh of relief.

"It's funny," Crane said suddenly, turning back toward me, "how things tend to work out for the best, isn't it?"

"I doubt Dr. Quinzel feels that way."

"Quinzel?" Crane repeated absently, as if he had already forgotten about her. "Oh … well, I'm sure she'll get over it. But consider yourself: two times now you've come into contact with the Joker and lived. Not to mention catching a glimpse of the Batman. That'll be a story for the grandchildren. Assuming you live long enough … but my point is only this: it all depends on how you look at it."

"What do you think she would have done if he hadn't shown up?" I asked Crane. He seemed a little irritated I had ignored what he had said and asked an unrelated question.

"Nothing," Crane said dismissively, "I doubt very much she had thought that far ahead. In my professional opinion, Dr. Quinzel is mostly bark with little bite. All show no substance. That kind of thing."

When he had left for good I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyelids. I was very tired. It was as if all the exhaustion of the last month had finally caught up to me, and I was feeling it all at once. I thought I could probably fall asleep right here with no trouble at all.

Oh and by the way, I lied to Crane about the batarang. Of course I had taken it with me. I figured if he knew I had it he might have wanted to study it or something for his book.

I also thought what Crane had said about everything working out for the best (depending on how you looked it) was hogwash. Things would have been so much better if I had never crossed paths with Joker or Quinzel or Red Hood or the Batman. But I could appreciate that, despite everything, I was still alive. Perhaps that was thanks to the Batman. Perhaps not. Regardless, it was clear that things were becoming very complicated. Unexpectedly so. The road through Arkham was twisting in new and strange ways. And to be perfectly honest, _mate_ , I was uncertain where it would lead.


End file.
